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MASTERPIECE STUDIES 

IN. 

LITEEATUEE 

GEORGE ELIOT WASHINGTON IRVING 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

TOGETHER WITH A 

MANUALFORTEACHING ENGLISH CLASSICS 

BY 

GEORGE L. MARSH AND JAMES F. ROYSTER 



CHICAGO 

SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 

1904 



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LIBRARY of GONflRESSl 
Two CoDtes Heceived 

JUN 2 1904 

Cooyrleht Entry 

CLASS d XXc. No. 
COPY B 




COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY 
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 






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V 

CONTENTS 



Silas Marner George Eliot 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Washington Irving 

Thanatopsis William Cullen Bryant 

A Manual for Teaching English Classics | ^ZZk^lur 



The Selections in this hook are taken 
from different volumes of the Lake English 
Classics. The pages are numbered in the 
order of the books from which the selections 
are taken and are therefore not consecutive 
here. 



Zbc Xahe EuQlieb (Elaeaice 



SILAS mar:neb 



BY 



GEORGE ELIOT 



EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE 

BY 

ALBERT ELMER HANCOCK, Ph.D. 

INSTEUCTOR OF BNGLISH IN HAVEBFORD COLLEQB 



CHICAGO 
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 

1904 



Copyright 1899 
By SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 



PREFACE 

In the following introductory pages the editor has 
endeavored to place before the student in a very simple 
way, first, the most important things about George Eliot 
and her literary career, and second, a plan for the ana- 
lytic study of Silas Marner. In the first part the aim 
has been to emphasize ideas more than facts, to show the 
principles of art and conduct for which George Eliot 
stood, and which are the most illuminating commen- 
taries on her works. In the second part the purpose 
has been to suggest a method whereby the mere desultory 
reading of Silas Marner may be turned into reading 
that is in an elementary sense critical ; for though a 
novel is primarily a story to be read for pleasure, no one 
will like it less because he can intelligently discuss the 
reasons for his enjoyment. 

A. E. H. 
Haverford College, Penn., 
June, 1899o 



CONTENTS 

Preface , . . • . 3 

Introduction 

I. George Eliot and Her Work 

Biography 7 

A Glimpse at the Novels .... 12 

The Psychological Method 16 

Realism in Humble Life .... 18 
Her Philosophy of Life : Humanism . . .20 

Style 22 

n. Analysis of Silas Marner 

Purpose 25 

The Characters 27 

The Descriptions 28 

• Dramatic Incidents 28 

Didactic Interpolations 29 

III. Bibliography 30 

Topics for Themes and Discussions . • 32 



INTRODUCTION 
I. GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 

The career of George Eliot, as Mary 

Biography. ° '' 

Ann Evans styled herself when she began 
to write novels, naturally divides itself into three periods. 
In the first, she is a young country girl of Derbyshire, 
conspicuous for her natural talents and her scholarship, 
yet, apparently destined to lead an uneventful domestic 
life. In the second, a short period, she is a translator, 
a critic, an editor, and one of a coterie of progressive 
and radical thinkers in London. In the third, from 
1856 to 1880, a quarter of a century of real glory, she 
is the author of a series of novels which, when all is 
told, entitle her to the honor of being one of the very 
greatest writers of English prose fiction. 

Mary Ann Evans was born on St. Cecilia's day in 
1819, on her father's farm at Arbury, in Warwickshire, 
one of the midland counties of England. Shortly 
afterward the family moved to Griff House, the home 
of her girlhood, a large, substantial, ivy-covered build- 
ing, set among flowers, hedges and impressive trees. 
Robert Evans was a prosperous land agent, and he gave 
his daughter a more than decent schooling. The daughter 
was a diligent student and an insatiate reader. At the 
Coventry school for young ladies, she was, tradition says, 
quiet, reserved, almost timid, but withal the school favor- 



8 INTRODUCTION 

ite. Her nickname was Little Mamma, and the title 
suggests her unusual seriousness of character. 

At sixteen, after her mother's death, she went back to 
her father's house as its mistress. Here, amid the 
trivial home duties, she continued her studies, and, in 
the course of time, became a really distinguished student 
of Greek, Latin, French, German, Italian and Hebrew, 
— one pauses to take breath at the list. She had an inor- 
dinate capacity for knowledge, and a unique ability for 
speculation. Though never fervent in her religious 
emotion, she was a firm believer in the truths of revela- 
tion until she was eighteen ; but with the thoughtful 
years she began to examine critically the system of Chris- 
tian theology. To her unaided intellect its truth was 
not demonstrable, and she ceased, reluctantly, to attend 
church The father was a rigidly orthodox member 
of the established church and he refused to live with 
an agnostic child. The family ties were broken, and 
the daughter sadly left the house. At the end of two 
months, impelled by the sense of filial duty, the girl 
returned with a promise to conform in the outward 
ceremonies. But her intellectual rebellion was unsub- 
dued, and this incident found her at the cross-roads, turn- 
ing toward the highway of skepticism. She was, in the 
broad sense, all through life deeply and truly religious ; 
she always wrote of religious subjects with a saddened 
yet remote sympathy, but she never regained the simple 
faith of her childhood. Shortly after her return home 
her father died, and then, needing a change of scene, she 
crossed to the continent for a year's residence at Geneva. 

These early years were spent in the accumulation 
of literary capital. She wae observing, unconsciously 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 9 

perhaps, the joys and sorrows, the trivial cares and 
duties, the humorous limitations, the sterling virtues, 
the unwritten tragedies of the men and women of pro- 
vincial England. Her mind was storing up the facts 
and details of humble life, and of the nobility of this, 
like Wordsworth before her in the north, she was to 
become the sympathetic advocate. 

A short yet important period of literary apprentice- 
ship followed her return from the continent. In London 
she became associated with such eminent leaders of 
thought as Herbert Spencer and John Stuart Mill. She 
had translated from the German Strauss 's Life of Jesus; 
now she translated Feuer bach's Essence of Christianity. 
She wrote criticisms and reviews for the magazines, for 
example one on the selfish religion of Young in his 
Night Thoughts^ another on ** Silly Novels by Lady Nov- 
elists." She became assistant editor of a radical organ, 
the Westminster Review. On a red letter day she was 
introduced to George Henry Lewes, a brilliant and ver- 
satile vrriter, the author of the Life of Goethe. The 
acquaintance soon ripened into love, and in 1854 the two 
joined fortunes and fates, and set out for Germany on a 
honeymoon. 

There is in the history of Miss Evans, up to her 
thirty -sixth year, no suggestion of her future career and 
greatness as a novelist. Indeed the beginning of this 
career seems accidental. One day she determined to 
write a series of short stories and she began the volume 
afterwards called Scenes from Clerical Life with the 
Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton. 

"One night G, went to town on purpose to leave me a quiet 
evening for writing it I read it to him when he came 



10 INTRODUCTION 

home. We both cried over it, and then he came up and 
kissed me, saying, 'I think your pathos is better than your 
fun.'" 

This story, sent to Blackwoods under the pseudonym 
of George Eliot, was accepted, and paid for with fifty 
guineas. Amos Barton and its companion pieces gave 
her at once a reputation. Encouraged and delighted, 
the new author meditated a sustained effort : the result 
was Adam Bede. The book made a sensation and a new 
literary figure. Thackeray and Dickens gave her the 
due meed of praise, the latter suspecting the writer to 
be a woman. The Mill on the Floss, containing much 
that was autobiographical, followed and intensified her 
first success. Then came Silas Mar7ier, in plot a 
pure creation of the imagination; artistically, some 
think, the best of all her works. In 1860, after a resi- 
dence at Florence, and much historical research, she 
issued her historical novel, Romola. This was published 
serially in the Cornhill Magazine. Almost exhausted by 
Romola, her next effort was a poem, or if not a poem, a 
narrative in noble verse, the Spanish Gypsy. Felix 
Holt, the Radical, followed, in three volumes. Then 
came Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, two books 
wherein George Eliot, forsaking humble life, reached 
up for her subjects to a higher stratum of society. 
With Theophrastus Such, a series of erudite essays, she 
closed her brilliant career in an anti-climax. Before the 
publication of this last, however, Mr. Lewes had died 
and two years after his death George Eliot married Mr. 
J W. Cross, an American banker resident in England. 
During these years of authorship she lived, surrounded 
by friends, in London, breaking the stress of creative 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 11 

work with trips to the continent. On the 22d of Decem- 
ber, 1880, she died, leaving a heritage of good books, 
and from this heritage the world is incalculably richer 
in human sympathy and love. 

The character of George Eliot is worthy of special 
study; for, in many respects, it is undoubtedly unique. 
She possessed the best traits of both sexes. Her per- 
sonal appearance suggested the masculine; it was 
impressive rather than beautiful. She had a high fore- 
head, a massive face, a firmly set moutli and sharp, pene- 
trating grey eyes. It was a face which recalls one of 
her favorite characters, the resolute, heavy-browed Savo- 
narola. In the large head, supported on a fragile body, 
there was a brain, critical, logical, able to get outside of 
self and to take an impersonal view; capable of long, 
arduous concentration, and ruled by a vigorous, conquer- 
ing will. Indeed the reading public readily accepted the 
unknown writer as a man. But for all this she was very 
truly a woman and her real greatness was the gift of her 
womanhood. There was in her nature a charming lack of 
self-sufficiency; there was, too, the feminine variability; 
she was nervous, excitable, at times low-spirited, always 
hungry for affection and eager to give a return in kind. 
Her manners were sweet, gentle, unobtrusive, quite free 
from all the affectations of the literary lioness. She 
avoided rather than courted adulation and fame. One 
might have expected to find her, with all her knowledge 
and gifts, a Lady Mary Blue-stocking. But she was 
simply a lovable and a loving woman. 

Though unbidden, let us slip back into one of her after- 
noons at home in the drawing room of the Priory in 
Kegent's Park. If we are fortunate we may find there 



12 INTRODUCTION 

Tennyson or Browning, or more probably Herbert 
Spencer. It is a large room, decorated by Owen Jones, 
and hung with drawings by Sir Frederick Leighton. 
Mr. Lewes is moving about among the visitors, bubbling 
with wit and airy nothings, a proud master of cere- 
monies. In an armchair, seated before the fireplace, 
sits the lady, suggestive almost of royalty, yet unconscious 
of her uncrowned merit. In repose her face is plain 
and placid; when she speaks, it becomes half -luminous 
with a serious yet tender zeal to give her visitors her 
best thought and sympathy. **She appeared," writes a 
close friend, *'far greater than her books." Indeed she 
speaks little of herself and her work. She has the gift, 
rare among notables, of suppressing self, and the tact to 
make others speak. These receptions often overtax her 
strength, and when the company has departed she turns, 
with a sigh of relief, to the one who remains, her hus- 
band, and upon him she showers the full measure of that 
love which led her to dedicate to him every one of her 
books. 

A Glimpse at The gcuius of Gcorge Eliot was not of 
the Novels. ^^^ miraculous, inexplicable kind. Her 
mind was singularly receptive and reflective, and, im- 
pelled by her natural talents and fed by the facts of 
experience and observation, it unfolded by a steady and 
normal growth. We can divide her creative literary 
career into three periods, and the lines of divison are 
marked by her choice of subjects. First of all we have 
her studies in provincial life and character ; and in this 
group are the Scenes from Clerical Life^ Adam Becle^ 
The Mill on the Floss and Silas Marner. These deal, 
in the main, with humble life, and in these we get the 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 13 

truest and most realistic results of her own observation 
of the daily life, physical and mental, of the obscure 
yet not unheroic provincials of her native rural county. 

The Scenes from Clerical Life are three short stories, 
the promising work of a beginner. Adam Bede, her 
next attempt, is the history of an honest, laborious, 
God-fearing carpenter, who at first is bewitched by 
the superficial charms of a vain and foolish dairy maid. 
Dinah Morris, a young Methodist preacher, eloquent with 
the gospel of the beauty of holiness and love, is the pre- 
siding genius of this book, and her union with Adam Bede 
is the expected result of the law of natural selection. A 
commonplace story, but, like Shakspere, the author takes 
the commonplace, and, by her power of creating charac- 
ters and of endowing them with the human passions, gives 
to art a picture from nature. The Mill on the Floss is 
largely autobiogi'aphical. It presents a vivid picture of 
child life and girlhood and it solves a moral problem. 
Maggie Tulliver is a real girl ; she plays in the mud, rips 
her dresses and in her mischievous moments mangles her 
hair ; but when she grows older and reads The Imitation 
of Christ her soul opens and she knows the beauty of 
moral ideals. A crisis comes. After having given her 
word to one man she falls passionately in love with 
another; but he is pledged to her dearest friend. In a 
moment of weakness Maggie yields to selfish impulse, but 
before it is too late, repentance comes, and the crisis is 
followed by the heroic tragedy of self-renunciation. 
SeK-renunciation ! this is the Christian solution of the 
unchurched author. 

Of Silas Marner we shall speak in detail later. Hav- 
ing written this tale, George Eliot turns her genius 



14 INTRODUCTION 

upon a new field. This is the field of historical fiction, 
And the single product is Romola. Romola is the result, 
not of observation and experience, but of reading and 
research. It takes us to Florence and the golden days 
of the Eenaissance, the court of the Medici and the con- 
vent of Savonarola. * 'A magnificent effort of the creative 
intellect, but a splendid failure," some say. "It isn't 
true to Italy," say the critics. Perhaps not; nor is the 
play of Hamlet true to Denmark, but both are true to 
life. Most readers, doubtless, will not refuse to enjoy 
the sunlight because the astronomers say there are spots 
on the sun. Tito Melema, the central figure, is the 
author's most profound study in psychology. He is a 
young man gifted with all the graces and qualities that 
bring success, but he loves pleasure above all things and 
avoids any painful self-sacrifice. One mistake, a slight 
impulsive act of selfishness, leads to another and then an- 
other, and before the man is aware he is caught in the 
toils of fate and dragged to destruction. The slow, sub- 
tle degradation of this brilliant youth is an awful expres- 
sion of the vindictive power of Nemesis. Once Tito's 
real character is known, Komola, his pure, noble, yet 
essentially pagan wife would flee from him and from 
the wickedness of Florence, but Savonarola and an awak- 
ened conscience christianize her, showing her the path of 
duty, and by ministering, amid a sinful populace, to the 
needs of others, her troubled soul finds peace. 

Romola was a tremendous effort, and it was written 
under clouds of depression and fears of failure. But 
the indomitable will of George Eliot struggled on to the 
triumph. The number and the kind of books she read 
to get her material is astounding. It was, as well it 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 15 

might have been, a notable mountain of difficulty in her 
career, and the climb left its marks. "I began it a 
young woman," she wrote at the close, "and I finished 
it an old woman." With a sense of change, after some 
efforts in verse, and after the comparatively unsuccessful 
Felix Holt, the Radical, she entered upon a third field, 
the life of the cultured classes, and wrote Middlemarch 
and Daniel Deronda. Middlemarch, at bottom, is a 
criticism on social limitations and conventions. It shows 
how the noble aims and ideals of the ardent are crushed 
and shattered by the sordid facts of reality. Dorothea 
Brooke is a modern St. Teresa; lured by a Quixotic 
sense of duty she weds a marrowless recluse, hoping to 
make him happy and to help him in his monumental 
work of pedantic scholarship. It is a mistake and the 
happiness of both is destroyed. Middlemarch is a labor- 
ious but powerful novel ; in spite of some defects it pos- 
sesses an unostentatious solidity which leaves a strong 
impression upon the memory. Daniel Deronda, with 
all its faults, is the product of George Eliot's maturest 
mind. It is the record of the conversion and regenera- 
tion of a selfish young girl, who, early in life, was allured 
by the ambition for wealth and high station. Gwendolen 
Harleth marries a brutal, polished egotist, the young 
nobleman Grandcourt, against the command of her con- 
science, and when, by his death, his wished-for death, 
she is released from his tyranny, she gains her freedom 
only to be tormented with remorse. But in the end she 
is fully redeemed to womanhood. Deronda, who comes 
into Gwendolen's life as a spiritual adviser, is a young 
Jew. He has great plans for the re-establishment of his 
race in Palestine and the restoration of the Jewish 



16 INTRODUCTION 

national life. He is only a high-minded dreamer, an 
idealist, but in him George Eliot vindicates the Jew and 
shows that, after all, spiritual ideals are the essential 
elements of real religion. With this book the author's 
career as a novelist closes, for TJieophr ashes Such is but 
the aftermath of a late harvest. 
The Psycho-"* "^^ ^^^ treatment of character George 

M^hod. Eliot pursues rigorously the psychological 
method; she is a scientist and her field 
of work is the spiritual life. Her natural bent is to 
scrutinize, as with a microscope, the anatomy and 
physiology of the soul. She studies impulses, motives 
of conduct and the results of their action. A botanist 
observes the forms of plants, he notes the processes of 
their growth, their changes under the varying conditions 
of seasons and climate ; he picks away the petals of a 
rose to get at the heart of the flower. So with scien- 
tific minuteness George Eliot watches and details the 
constitution and the actions of the inner life of man, 
and her works are therefore histories of spiritual devel- 
opment. The characters are not static, not studies from 
still life, but they are dynamic, always unfolding in the 
play of contact with the other forces in the world. 

Take, for illustration, Silas Marner. When the story 
of his life begins this man is an industrious weaver, full 
of faith in God and love for men. A theft is commit- 
ted; the cast of the lots, supposedly under the control 
of Providence, unjustly declares him to be the thief. 
The light of faith goes out, with it the love for men, and 
the soul of Marner is in utter darkness. He goes away, 
lives as a hermit and his life is void of any strong inter- 
est until the greed for gold supplies him with a ruling 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 1*? 

passion. Then the gold is taken away, and his soal is 
once more a dark vacuum. At last a waif, a golden- 
haired little gu'l, comes out of the unknown into his 
heart, and warms its frigid loneliness with human affec- 
tion ; — once again the lights of love and faith dawn upon 
his arid life and through this little child Marner is 
reconciled with God and man. A psychological study 
this, for it shows the changes, which, under varying 
conditions, take place in the soul. 

If looked at in one way, this writer is scientifically 
exact, cold-blooded, impersonal; in another and more 
emphatic way, she is deeply human, sympathetic, and 
full of warmth and mercy. And this is the great merit 
of her application of the scientific method to literature. 
In her books there are no arrant knaves, no unspotted 
saints. Tito Melema, a sinner, is yet affectionate and 
lovable; even Romola, with all her placid purity, 
impulsively flees from near duties ; and when Silas Mar- 
ner is in the deepest depths of his sordid miserliness, 
the writer indulges in no wrathful reproaches, nor does 
she for a moment lose faith in the man. Unlike Thack- 
eray, George Eliot has no bitter vein of cynicism; unlike 
Dickens, she has no bent toward caricature; and, if 
lees brilliant than either of these, she is more sane and 
true. And these qualities of sanity and truth are the 
vu'tues of her psychological depth and insight. **He 
that is without sin among yon," said Christ, *'let him 
cast the first stone." George Eliot, facing sin and sin- 
ners, seems to write with this same spirit of Christian 
charity. She knew the real difficulties of righteous 
living, she knew the full power of temptation, she knew 
the blindness and the ignorance of human nature, and 



18 INTRODUCTION 

because as a psychologist she knew these, her books are 
filled with that quality of mercy which droppeth as the 
gentle rain from heaven. In this respect she is greater, 
even, than the gi'eat Thackeray. 
KeaUsm in As would be cxpcctcd from what has 
Humble ife. ^.^^^ heen Said, George Eliot is a realist, 
and in her best and most spontaneous work, her field is 
that of normal humble life. 

She is a realist because her books are faithful records 
of what actually exists in the world. She does not draw 
from her imagination any impossible heroes or heroines, 
who, from unattainable heights of virtue or depths of 
depravity, attract or terrify us into sentimental good- 
ness. Like David and the men of the Old Testament, 
the characters in these novels are creatures of flesh and 
blood ; there is the taint of earth upon them all, and if 
they are good, they are so because they have fought with 
sin and conquered. Her eyes have seen, her ears have 
heard, her heart has felt and their reports are the data 
upon which she builds her stories. So, in holding fast 
to the facts of character, to the complexity of human 
nature, to the delicately intermingled lights and shades 
of virtue and sinfulness, George Eliot is a true realist. 

And for another reason. Eomantic writers like Jules 
Verne and Rider Haggard search out the exceptional, 
the strange, often the fantastic; they write tales of ad- 
venture, full of novelty and excitement, often arousing 
morbid curiosity. But George Eliot is quite content to 
be merely commonplace. Everyday life, everyday joys 
and sorrows, routine duties, obscure destinies, these are 
her El Doradoes ; and they are not in the fable lands of 
the East and the West, but there at home in the midland 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HEi« WORK 19 

counties of England. She does not wander far afield 
searching for dramatic heroes ; there are scores of sub- 
jects around her. 

"There are few prophets in the world," she writes in Adam 
Bede, "few sublimely beautiful women, few heroes. I can't 
afford to give all my love and reverence to such rarities. I 
want a great deal of those feelings for my fellowmen." 

In another place in Adam Bede there is a criticism of 
the Dutch domestic painters, and in showing her love 
for these unobtrusive masters she makes a plea for her 
own work. The passage is well worth quoting. 

"It is for this rare, precious quality of truthfulness that I 
delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty -minded people 
des ise. I find a source of delicious sympathy in these faith- 
ful ^actures of a monotonous homely existence. ... I turn, 
without shrinking, from cloud-borne angels, from prophets, 
sibyls and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her 
flower pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noon-day 
light, softened, perhaps, by a screen of leaves, falls on her 
mob-cap and just touches the rim of her spinning wheel, and 
her stone jug and all the cheap common things which are the 
precious necessaries of life to her. . . . 'Foh,' says my ideal- 
istic friend, 'what vulgar details! What good is there in 
taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women 
and clowns? What a low phase of life ! What cliunsy, ugly 
people!' But bless us, things may be lovable that are not 
altogether handsome, I hope." 

The fact is, George Eliot has done in prose what 
Wordsworth did previously in poetry ; she has impressed 
men with the sense of joy to be found, as Matthew 
Arnold puts it, in nature and in the simple, primary 
affections and duties. Both, indeed, have sometimes 
strayed from their native fields, and, though in no man- 



20 INTRODUCTION 

ner to their discredit, they have then failed to reach 
their highest range. The formal classic odes of Words- 
worth are not equal to his simple ballads, and Middle- 
march and Daniel Deronda^ strong as they are, are not 
equal to Adam Bede. The real merit of the poet and 
the novelist is the glorification of humble life. 

Early in life, as we have seen, George 
phy of Life: EUot lost the faith of her childhood. Her 

Humanism. . . • • ■ ■ i 

mind was opening to maturity just at the 
beginning of a new philosophy, the philosophy of Eation- 
alism or Positivism, the chief apostles of which were 
Comte in France, and Mill and Spencer in England. 
These thinkers place the emphasis upon those facts of 
life concerning which we have positive knowledge, upon 
the world made known by the senses, the demonstrable 
truths ; they are agnostic toward the truths of supernat- 
ural revelation, and they deny the possibility of mira- 
cles and the suspension of natural law. This is a philos- 
ophy which sweeps away many of the traditional and 
essential doctrines of the Cliristian church. 

George Eliot matured in the atmosphere of this phi- 
losophy, accepted its fundamental principles, and made 
them the basis of her point of view. Positivism, or 
better, humanism, permeates all her books. In her 
feelings, as already noted, she was deeply religious, but 
her intellect refused to accept the doctrines of the church 
as proved or provable. *'I have no objections to Chris- 
tianity but its want of evidence," she wrote. There is, in 
her intellectual life, no positive belief in God, in immor- 
tality, in historical Christianity ; but lacking these, she 
held fast to one thing, the necessity of doing one's duty 
to the world. Mr. Frederick Myers has reported a dra- 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 21 

matic conversation on this subject; it reveals the heroic 
nobility of George Eliot, working in the darkness of spir- 
itual night. 

**I remember how, at Cambridge, I walked with her once in 
the Fellows' Garden at Trinity on an evening in rainy May, 
and as she, stirred somewhat beyond her wont, and taking as 
her text the three words which have been used so often as the 
inspiring tnmipet call of men, God, Immortality, Duty, pro- 
nounced with terrible earnestness how inconceivable was the 
first, how unbelievable was the second, how peremptory and 
absolute was the third. Never, perhaps, have sterner accents 
aflSrmed the sovereignty of impersonal and recompensing law. 
I listened, and night fell; her grave majestic coimtenance 
turned toward me like a sibyl's in the gloom; it was as 
though she withdrew from me, one by one, the two scrolls of 
promise and left me the third scroll only, awful with inevi- 
table fates. And when we stood at length and parted, 
under that columnar circuit of forest trees, beneath the last 
twilight of starless skies, I seemed to be gazing, like Titus at 
Jerusalem, on vacant seats and empty halls, on a sanctuary 
with no presence to hallow it, and heaven left lonely of a 
God." 

But in truth her religion was only half gone; finding 
it impossible to worship the God of the Bible, she wor- 
shipped God's creation, humanity; for, like the other 
Positivists, she was also an ardent lover of her fellow- 
men. They cease to contemplate the ideas of God and 
Immortality and they act, with, though apart from, the 
church, to ameliorate the conditions of this present 
world. The two great commandments of Christ are to 
love thy God with all thy heart, mind, soul and strength, 
and thy neighbor as thyself. The first of these, intel- 
lectually, George Eliot could not obey ; the second she 
obeyed with um'elenting zeal, and in doing so, hoped to 



22 INTRODUCTION 

attain an unselfish "subjective immortality," a continued 
impersonal existence in the minds and hearts of happier 
future generations. She wrote, in one of her poems : 

"Oh! may I join the Choir Invisible 
Of those immortal dead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence, 

Whose music is the gladness of the world." 

Duty, duty to one's neighbor, to future generations, 
this was the heart of her creed, the first principle of her 
philosophy of humanism, and her watchword in life. It 
is to be regretted that she could not attain the clear 
vision and sublimity of faith in the unseen ; that, unlike 
her Dolly Winthrop, her own Providence must be blind, 
relentless, immutable Natural Law : but even the strictest 
of churchmen will hardly judge her, still less condemn; 
she did what she could. This lack of faith was, indeed, 
a great disadvantage. "Her scepticism," writes Mr. 
Eichard Holt Hutton, a spnitually-minded critic, 
"seems one of the greatest of the limitations of her 
genius." And another writer, feeling with truth the 
deeply religious nature of her heart, very beautifully 
says, "For the orthodox Christian she is a priestess 
without an altar, a prophetess without a shrine." 

In the beginning of her career, as a 
translator from the German, the style of 
George Eliot was conspicuous for its accuracy and faith- 
fulness to the original. It was the painstaking work of 
a scholar, and scholarliness, perhaps, is the first quality 
of her style. 

Scholarship does not, of course, necessai*ily imply dull- 
ness; indeed, in George Eliot's novels, the style often, 



GEORGE ELIOT AND HER WORK 23 

very often, attains an epigrammatic concreteness and an 
illuminating brilliancy. However, the impulses of the 
scholar and the artist are frequently at odds, and fre- 
quently, too, an excess of knowledge smothers the imagi- 
nation. George Eliot's style certainly does suffer from 
too much erudition; for, in the descriptive and reflective 
passages, and these are many, her diction is heavy, 
labored and burdened with ponderous Latin words. Her 
vocabulary is large and, at times, unconsciously ostenta- 
tious. Romola, for some readers, is spoiled by too many 
gratuitous details. **The terrible masses of information, " 
says Leslie Stephen, **have put out the fire." In point 
of style the work of George Eliot is immoderately ana- 
lytic ; she will resolve a scene or a complex idea into its 
minute details and illustrations, she will enumerate 
indefatigably fact after fact and observation after obser- 
vation, and the result is a failure to express that soul of 
style, the underlying lyrical mood. One cannot see the 
woods for the trees. 

However, even in these heavy passages, there are 
lightning flashes of epigram and imagination ; there are 
touches of the artist's hand, touches of real beauty. 
Dorothea Brooke enters a room, and her coming, writes 
George Eliot, was like a "sudden and pleasant change 
in the light." A phrase like that reveals at once the 
character of the girl, and her kinship with the sainted 
Teresa. When Arthur Donnithorne, in Adam Bede^ is 
brooding over his flirtation with Hetty, the author subtly 
observes, **No gentleman, out of a ballad, could marry a 
farmer's niece." There are multitudes of such imagi- 
native flashes half concealed amid prose more or less 
dull. 



24 INTRODUCTION 

But if the passages in the author's own person 
are often labored, the dramatic passages, where the 
characters speak for themselves, are spontaneous and 
vital. The men and women do not utter book-talk, 
they speak phrases which throb with life and individu- 
ality. The sharpness of observation, the homely illus- 
trations, the traits of imagination so noticeable in the 
uneducated, are all within easy reach of George Eliot's 
grasp. **There's allays two 'pinions," says Mr. Macey 
to the tavern group, *' there's the 'pinion a man has of 
himsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. 
There 'd be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell 
could hear itself." Mrs. Poyser, in Adam Bede, is no 
less aphoristic. **For my part," she says, *'I was never 
fond o' gentlefolk's servants, they're mostly like the fine 
lady's fat dogs, nayther good for barkin' nor butcher's 
meat, but on'y for show." 

It has been already noted that her zeal for analysis, 
for heaping up details enumeratively, destroys the lyrical 
mood which transforms mere writing into art. This, 
unfortunately, is too often the case. But there are 
times when the poet's impulse controls her, quiets her 
sharp wits, and casts into the atmosphere of her imagi- 
nation the subdued magic of poetry. A beautiful exam- 
ple of this is found at the end of one of the chapters of 
Silas Marner^ where she speaks of the redeeming influ- 
ence of a little child in a shattered life. 

"In old days, there were angels who came and took men by 
the hand and led them away from the city of destruction. 
We see no white winged angels now. But yet men are led 
away from threatening destruction ; a hand is put into theirs 
which leads them forth gently toward a calm and bright land, 



ANALYSIS OF ''SILAS MARNER" 25 

so that they look no more backward ; and the hand may be a 
little child's." 

In coming to a final decision concerning her style, 
after noting here and there some misused words, some 
popular solecisms, much heavy Latin verbiage, her tend- 
ency to sermonize and force the moral, and after noting, 
too, in her favor, a brilliancy of dialogue, a sparkling 
of epigram, a well considered accuracy of speech, one 
must say that the great merit of her books does not lie 
in the style. It is solid, so solid that at times it ob- 
scures the light and the play of color ; but it lacks too 
frequently that essential of great style, a lyrical enthu- 
siasm which kindles the emotions and compels, as by a 
magic open sesame, the imagination to open its doors to 
vistas of the beautiful. 

IL ANALYSIS OF "SILAS MARNER"* 

The analysis of Silas Marner which follows will con- 
sider these points : purpose, plot, characters, description, 
dramatic incident, and didactic interpolations. These 
are standards which may be applied to very many, if 
not almost all, works of fiction. 

Purpose. George Eliot did not believe, with a certain 
modern school, that art should exist for art's sake 
merely. In her view, art was vitally related to life, and 
particularly to conduct. She wrote therefore with an 
ethical as well as an artistic purpose and with distinct 
designs upon the conscience. In Silas Marner her ar- 
tistic purpose was to give a picture of life in a remote 
English village; her ethical purpose was, in her own 

* Give the book a rapid preliminary reading before proceeding to make 
a critical study. 



26 INTRODUCTION 

plirase, to set "in a strong light the remedial influences 
of pure, natural, human relations." Silas Marner, after 
the loss of his gold, is without any interest which could 
make his life worth the living; but with the coming 
of Eppie the dormant human affections are awakened 
in his heart and he becomes once more at peace with 
God and his f ellowmen. 

J The Plot. The story is exceedingly simple. A 
weaver, falsely accused of theft, is driven from his home 
and friends in Lantern Yard. The injustice of his fate 
causes him to revolt in his heart against God and to 
become a misanthi'ope. He emigrates to a distant vil- 
lage, lives in a hermit's solitude and centers his efforts 
upon the hoarding of gold. Then his money is mysteri- 
ously taken from him, and, for a time, his life is a blank. 
One night, in a storm, a waif, a helpless child, comes 
straying by chance to his door. The lonely man takes 
her in, cares for her, learns to love her, and this love, 
taking the place of his former miser's gi'eed, redeems 
his lost human nature and makes him once more a man. 
There is an episode, as is usually the case, connected 
with the plot and giving breadth and background to 
the story. The episode concerns the fortunes of Godfrey 
Cass, the squire's son. He has foolishly married a 
woman of low station, and, too late, he recognizes the 
mistake; the marriage, however, has not been made 
public. His father, and, indeed, he, himself, desire 
his alliance with a young lady of the village. Godfrey 
temporizes, hoping that something may turn up to rid 
him of his wife and the necessity of acknowledging his 
child. The woman freezes to death in a storm, and 
Godfrey, cherishing his secret, marries Nancy Lammeter. 



ANALYSIS OF "SILAS MARNER" 27 

The episode, so important that this technical term 
seems hardly descriptive, is connected deftly with the 
plot by Dunstan, Godfrey's worthless brother, who steals 
Marner's money, and by Eppie, who, after years of life 
and love with Marner, proves to be the unacknowledged 
child of Godfrey. 

The Plots, after all, are but minor elements in 

Characters. ^ novcl ; plot-makiug is a cheap kind of 
invention. Shakspere borrowed nearly all of his stories ; 
the plots of Thackeray are mere makeshifts, and those 
of Dickens are, usually, melodramatic and sensational. 
Humanity is most interested in itself, and the absorbing 
interest in a great novel is derived from the human char- 
acters. It is in character-drawing that George Eliot 
excels — some critics, indeed, in this regard, ranking her 
with Shakspere. The characters in her books, as we 
have noted, are not photographs or sketches taken in a 
single pose or moment of time ; they are souls developing 
and transforming amid the tortures of the inquisitorial 
chamber of experience. It is essential then, in studying 
these men and women, to note, first of all, their traits — the 
foibles, the faults, the virtues and vices of each — and 
further, to observe how their natures unfold, weaken or 
strengthen under the stress of crises demanding judgment 
and action. In Silas Marnier we can divide these persons 
into three groups : first, the upper chcle of village 
gentlefolk, the Cass family, the Lammeters, the Gunns — 
the people, that is, who give the social standards; then 
the group of village gossips and wise-acres, the plain 
folk who haunt the Eainbow Tavern, Mr. Snell the 
landlord, Mr. Macey, Mr, Tookey and Mr. Dowlas ; and, 
last of all, and chief of all, Silas Marner, living for the 



28 INTRODUCTION 

most part by himself, his solitude broken, however, by 
the coming of Eppie and the religious consolation of 
Dolly Winthrop. The student should learn to charac- 
terize these people in detail, and to contrast their natures, 
observing the changes wrought between the beginning 
and the close of the story ; he should study, for exam- 
ple, Silas Marner's misanthropy, Nancy Lammeter's 
prudery, Eppie's sunbeam witchery, Dolly Winthrop's 
faith in the unseen Providence, and Godfrey's lack of 
courage when facing the consequences of his own acts. 
The In a novel, in addition to character study, 

Descriptions, there is always more or less description. 
This corresponds to the scenery and stage-setting of a 
play. Descriptions are most effective when they repro- 
duce a real atmosphere, full of local color, local traits 
and individual details. In Silas Marner there are 
faithful pictures of Lantern Yard, Raveloe, the ale-room 
at the Rainbow, the halls of the Cass House, the Stone- 
pits and the cottage of Silas Marner. In these the acts 
of the little di-ama take place. Local and provincial 
touches are seen in the village superstitions, the mys- 
terious regard for Marner because of his supposedly 
unnatural powers over disease, the discussion concern- 
ing ghosts, the petty rivalries of the village despots, all 
of which localize and individualize the place. In hold- 
ing us close to fact, the author gives a true portraiture 
of a provincial English county in the days before rail- 
roads covered the kingdom with a cobweb of iron. 
Dramatic A uovcl, a good uovcl, must be a narrative 
Incidents. Qf humau acts. We all havc a temptation 
to skip long descriptions ; but action vitalizes a book and 
makes the storv dramatic. There is in 8ilas Marner a 



ANALYSIS OF "SILAS MARNER" 29 

moderate amount of dramatic incident — the accusation 
and casting of lots in Lantern Yard, the quarrel of the 
Cass brothers, the dispute at the ale-house, the theft of 
the money, the New Y'ear party, the coming of Eppie, 
the renunciation of her father in Marner's cottage, and 
the return visit to Lantern Yard. No one of these inci- 
dents is wildly exciting, it is true ; but excitement is not 
one of the author's ambitions. Her favorite dramatic 
method in this book is to have a group gathered for some 
commonplace purpose, and then to make some one, like 
the messenger in a Greek play, rush in to announce an 
important bit of news. In this way Silas, discovering 
his money gone, breaks in upon the ale-house debate; 
the discovery of the body of Godfrey's wife interrupts 
the New Year's party at the Red House; and in a similar 
way is announced the finding of the remains of Dunstan. 
This method is a striking feature of George Eliot's 
dramatic construction and its effectiveness should be duly 
noted. 

Didactic George Eliot's weakness is her incessant 
Interpolations, q^^^ ovcr-zcalous desirc to preach. She 
was unusually serious and never lost an opportunity to 
address the conscience or to make observations on the 
abstract or general principles of human nature. "Her 
books are crowded with teaching of the most positive 
character," writes Mr. Cooke in his able study of her 
work. This unconcealed didacticism is artistically a 
very great blemish and there are many who wish she 
had been less of the preacher and more of the artist. 
Still these interpolations, these unwelcome intrusions, are 
there, and though they interrupt the story, and dampen 
the reader's enthusiasm, we cannot by wishing conjure 



30 INTRODUCTION 

them away. We must take the woman's work as it is 
and give thanks for the gift. The didactic parts are 
like doses of medicine, unpleasant, perhaps, but yet they 
make us better and stronger ; they deepen our reflective 
powers and our insight into human nature. Fortu- 
nately, Silas Marner is freer than any other of her books 
from these lapses, and, for this reason, possesses a unique 
artistic charm. There are, it is true, here and there, 
some abstract digressions even in Silas Marner^ but they 
are never long and wearisome. The student, in passing, 
may simply note this as a characteristic trait of George 
Eliot's usual style, and rejoice that in the present in- 
stance the tendency is more honored in the breach than 
in the observance. 

III. BIBLIOGRAPHY— LIFE 

The Life of George Eliot: by Oscar Browning, in the Great 
Writers' series. Written by an intimate friend. A good 
introductory book. 

George Eliot: by Mathilde Blind. A more extensive treat- 
ment than that by Mr. Browning. 

George Eliofs Life: by J. W. Cross. It consists of her own 
letters, edited and arranged by her husband. This is th© 
standard biography. 

George Eliot; a Critical Study of her Life, Writings and 
Philosophy: by George WiUis Cooke. A scholarly and pene- 
trating piece of exposition; a book well worth buying for 
those who wish a deep appreciation of the thought of George 
Eliot. 

A List of Critical Essays with Transcripts. 

Edward Dowden; in Studies in Literature, 1789-1877: The 
most important personality in her works is her second self. 
She condemns but does not hate; she has sympathy for all 
creatures. Her English landscapes are in the manner of Con- 
stable, rich with rough, soft color. Facts in her mind group 
themselves into moral laws. She shows that out of evil must 



BIBLIOGRAPHY— LIFE 31 

come evil. Her religious creed is the necessity of self- 
renunciation. For breadth of sympathy, for power of inter- 
preting the rarer and more intense experiences of men, she 
ranks with Shakspere. 

Frederic Harrison; in Early Victorian Literature: She 
has been called a modern Shakspere. Her j^kilosophy and 
science mar her artistic gifts. Her success in uniting specu- 
lation and art is far from complete. Her works are not spon- 
taneous, not buoyant enough. She was not a born narrator. 
Silas Marner comes nearer a great success than her more 
elaborate works ; there is little science or book learning in it. 
Her work would have been more enjoyable if she had taken 
less pains. Though she raised the art of romance to a higher 
plane, she was more of a thinker than an artist. 

Richard Holt Hntton; in Essays on Literary Criticism: 
Her remarkable feature is the "striking combination of a 
very deep speculative power with a great deal of realistic 
imagination." She is the novelist, not of surface manners 
but of the inward life. Romola is her greatest work. "The 
only flaw I can see in George Eliot's intellect consists in her 
attempts to conform her mind cheerfully to facts against 
which she inwardly rebels. . . . George Eliot, with a faith 
like that of her own Dinah, would, to my mind, be one of 
the greatest intellectual personages the world has ever seen. 
Faith would have vitalized her genius." 

John Morley; in Miscellanies, Volume III: She is "mag- 
nificent but unreadable." She possesses limitless per- 
sistency of application. Her unbelief was an intellectual 
necessity. In one of her own letters she says: "I have too 
profound a conviction of the efficacy that lies in all sincere 
faith and the spiritual blight that comes from no-faith, to 
have any negative propagandism in me." She is a "wise, 
benignant soul," and her character is most to be appreciated. 
Her poetry is not interesting, her fiction is lacking in fancy, 
illusion and enchantment. 

Edmond Scherer; in Essays on English Literature: You note 
in her face timidity and the need of sympathy and affection. 
In her, there is a dominion of reason over passion, of reflection 
ever spontaneity. Her philosophy is a gently sad one. She 



32 INTRODUCTION 

divines the interior play of the passions. She lacks the 
•experience of the troubles, excitements and disorders of love. 
In her own words, — "the highest virtue is that courage which 
tjan do without narcotics." 

TOPICS FOR THEMES AND DISCUSSIONS 

Each of the following topics may be taken as the sub- 
ject of a short theme to be read and criticised in class; 
or these topics may all be discussed orally. No refer- 
ences are given, since it is better for the pupil to find 
for Idmself the facts and the details. The more im- 
portant topics are marked with an asterisk. 

t. The Personal Appearance of Silas Marner. 
'2. !Marner's Expulsion from Lantern Yard.* 

3. A Description of the Village of Raveloe.* 

4. The Village Superstitions in Silas Marner. 

5. Marner's Reputation among the Villagers. 
«6. The Pleasures and Pains of a Miser. 

7. The Development of Marner's Character.* 

^. Squire Cass as a Type of the Country Gentleman. 

'9. A comparison of Squire Cass with Sir Roger de Coverley.* 

10. The Relations of Godfrey and Dunstan Cass, 

11. The Weakness of Godfrey's Character.* 

12. The History of Marner's Moneybags. 

13. The Faith of Dolly Winthrop.* 

14. Church and Chapel in England. 

15. The Courting of Nancy Lammeter. 

16. The New Year's Party at the Red House.* 

17. The Discussion in the Rainbow.* 

18. The History of Molly. 

19. Marner's Care for Eppie.* 

50. Eppie's Pranks.* 

51. The Love of Aaron and Eppie. 

22. Eppie's Renunciation of her Father.* 

28. The Return to Lantern Yard 

24:. George Eliot as a Realist.* 

SfS, Personal Impressions of Silas MarnerJ^ 



PART I 



CHAPTER I 



In the days when the spinning-wheels^ hnmmed busily 
in the farm houses — and even great ladies, clotted in 
silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of 
polished oak — there might be seen in districts far away 
among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, cer- 
tain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the 
brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a 
disinherited race. The shepherd's dog barked fiercely 
when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the 
upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what 
dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag? — and these 
pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious 
burden. The shepherd himself, though he had good 
reason to believe that the bag held nothing but flaxen 
thread, or else the long rolls of strong linen spun from 
that thread, was not quite sure that this trade of weav- 
ing, indispensable though it was, could be carried on 
entirely without the help of the Evil One. In that far-^ 
off time superstition clung easily round every person or 
thing that was at all unwonted, or even intermittent and 
occasional merely, like the visits of the pedlar or the 

^ The time here indicated vaguely was at the opening of the 
nineteenth century, and before the close of the Napoleonic wars, 

33 



34 SILAS MARNER 

knife-grinder. No one knew where wandering men had 
their homes or their origin ; and how was a man to be 
explained nnless you at least knew somebody who knew 
his father and mother? To the peasants of old times, 
the world outside their own direct experience was a 
region of vagueness and mystery: to their untravelled 
thought a state of wandering was a conception as dim as 
the winter life of the swallows that came back with the 
spring; and even a settler, if he came from distant 
parts, hardly ever ceased to be viewed with a remnant of 
distrust, which would have prevented any surprise if a 
long course of inoffensive conduct on his part had ended 
in the commission of a crime ; especially if he had any 
reputation for knowledge, or showed any skill in handi- 
craft. All cleverness, whether in the rapid use of that 
difficult instrument the tongue, or in some other art 
unfamiliar to villagers, was in itself suspicious : honest 
folk, born and bred in a visible manner, were mostly 
not over -wise or clever — at least, not beyond such a mat- 
ter as knowing the signs of the weather ; and the process 
by which rapidity and dexterity of any kind were 
acquired was so wholly hidden, that they partook of the 
nature of conjuring. In this way it came to pass that 
those scattered linen-weavers — emigrants from the town 
into the country — were to the last regarded as aliens by 
their rustic neighbours, and usually contracted the 
eccentric habits which belong to a state of loneliness. 

In the early years of this century, such a linen-weaver, 
named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone 
cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the 
village of Raveloe, and not far from the edge of a 
deserted stone-pit. The questionable sound of Silas'a 



SILAS MARNER 35 

loom, so unlike the natural clieerful trotting of the win- 
nowing machine, or tlie simpler rhythm of the flail, had 
a half -fearful fascination for the Eaveloe boys, who 
would often leave off their nutting or birds '-nesting to 
peep in at the window of the stone cottage, counter- 
balancing a certain awe at the mysterious action of the 
loom, by a pleasant sense of scornful superiority, drawn 
from the mockery of its alternating noises, along with 
the bent, tread-mill attitude of the weaver. But some- 
times it happened that Marner, pausing to adjust an 
irregularity in his thread, became aware of the small 
scoundi'els, and, though chary of his time, he liked their 
intrusion so ill that he would descend from his loom, 
and, opening the door, would fix on them a gaze that 
was always enough to make them take to their legs in 
terror. For how was it possible to believe that those 
large brown protuberant eyes in Silas Marner 's pale face 
really saw nothing very distinctly that was not close to 
them, and not rather that their dreadful stare could dart 
cramp, or rickets, or a wry mouth at any boy who hap- 
pened to be in the rear? They had, perhaps, heard 
their fathers and mothers hint that Silas Manner could 
cure folk's rheumatism if he had a mind, and add, still 
more darkly, that if you could only speak the devil fair 
enough, he might save you the cost of the doctor. Such 
strange lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might 
perhaps even now be caught by the diligent listener 
among the grey-hahed peasantry; for the rude mind 
with difficulty associates the ideas of power and benig- 
nity. A shadowy conception of power that by much 
persuasion can be induced to refrain from inflicting 
harm, is the shape most easily taken by the sense of the 



36 SILAS MARNER 

Invisible in the minds of men who have always been 
pressed close by primitive wants, and to whom a life of 
hard toil has never been illuminated by any enthusiastic 
religions faith. To them pain and mishap present a far 
wider range of possibilities than gladness and enjoyment : 
their imagination is almost barren of the images that 
feed desire and hope, but is all overgrown by recollec- 
tions that are a perpetual pasture to fear. *'Is there 
anything yon can fancy that you would like to eat?" I 
once said to an old labouring man, who was in his last 
illness, and who had refused all the food his wife had 
offered him. "No," he answered, "I've never been 
used to nothing but common victual, and I can't eat 
that." Experience had bred no fancies in him that 
could raise the phantasm of appetite. 

And Kaveloe was a village where many of the old 
echoes lingered, undr owned by new voices. Not that it 
was one of those barren parishes lying on the outskirts 
of civilization — inhabited by meagre sheep and thinly- 
scattered shepherds : on the contrary, it lay in the rich 
central plain of what we are pleased to call Merry Eng- 
land, and held farms which, speaking from a spiritual 
point of view, paid highly- desirable tithes.^ But it was 
nestled in a snug well -wooded hollow, quite an hour's 
journey on horseback from any turnpike, where it was 
never reached by the vibrations of the coach-horn, or of 
public opinion. It was an important-looking village, 
with a fine old church and large churchyard in the heart 
of it, and two or three large brick-and-stone homesteads, 
with well-walled orchards and ornamental weathercocks, 



^ The tenth part of a man's income, demanded by the 
church. 



SILAS MARNER 37 

standing close upon the road, and lifting more impos- 
ing fronts than the rectory, which peeped from among 
the trees on the other side of the churchyard : — a village 
which showed at once the summits of its social life, and 
told the practised eye that there was no great park and 
manor -house in the vicinity, but that there were several 
chiefs in Eaveloe who could farm badly quite at their 
ease, drawing enough money from their bad farming, in 
those war times, to live in a rollicking fashion, and keep 
a jolly Christmas, Whitsun,^ and Easter tide. 

It was fifteen years since Silas Marner had first come to- 
Eaveloe; he was then simply a pallid young man, with 
prominent short-sighted brown eyes, whose appearance 
would have had nothing strange for people of average 
culture and experience, but for the villagers near whom 
he had come to settle it had mysterious peculiarities 
which corresponded with the exceptional nature of his 
occupation, and his advent from an unknown region 
called '']N"orth'ard." So had his way of life: — he 
invited no comer to step across his door-sill, and he 
never strolled into the village to di'ink a pint at the 
Rainbow, or to gossip at the wheelwright's: he sought 
no man or woman, save for the purposes of his calling, 
or in order to supply himself with necessaries ; and it 
was soon clear to the Raveloe lasses that he would never 
urge one of them to accept him against her will — quite 
as if he had heard them declare that they would never 
marry a dead man come to life again. This view of 
Marner 's personality was not without another ground 
than his pale face and unexampled eyes; for Jem 
Rodney, the mole-catcher, averred that one evening as 

^ The seventh Sunday after Easter. 



38 SILAS MARNER 

he was returning homeward he saw Silas Marner leaning 
against a stile with a heavy bag on his back, instead of 
resting the bag on the stile as a man in his senses would 
have done; and that, on coming up to him, he saw that 
Marner 's eyes were set like a dead man's, and he spoke 
to him, and shook him, and his limbs were stiff, and his 
hands clutch'd the bag as if they'd been made of iron; 
but just as he made up his mind that the weaver was 
dead, he came all right again, like, as you might say, in 
the winking of an eye, and said "G-ood night," and 
walked off. All this Jem swore he had seen, more by 
token that it was the very day he had been mole-catch- 
ing on Squire Cass's land, down by the old saw -pit. 
Some said Marner must have been in a *'fit," a word 
which seemed to explain things otherwise incredible; 
but the argumentative Mr. Macey, clerk of the parish, 
shook his head, and asked if anybody was ever known 
to go off in a fit and not fall down. A fit was a stroke, 
wasn't it? and it was in the nature of a stroke to partly 
take away the use of a man's limbs and throw him on 
the parish, if he'd got no children to look to. No, no; 
it was no stroke that would let a man stand on his legs, 
like a horse between the shafts, and then walk off as 
soon as you can say "Gee!" But there might be such 
a thing as a man's soul being loose from his body, and 
going out and in, like a bird out of its nest and back ; 
and that was how folks got over-wise, for they went to 
school in this shell-less state to those who could teach 
them more than their neighbours could learn with their 
five senses and the parson. And where did Master 
Marner get his knowledge of herbs from — and charms 
too, if he liked to give them away? Jem Rodney's story 



SILAS MARNER 39 

was no more than what might have been expected by 
anybody who had seen how Marner had cured Sally 
Gates, and made her sleep like a baby, when her heart 
had been beating enough to burst her body, for two 
months and more, while she had been under the doc- 
tor's care. He might cure more folks if he would; but 
he was worth speaking fair, if it was only to keep him 
from doing you a mischief. 

It was partly to this vague fear that Marner was in- 
debted for protecting him from the persecution that his 
singularities might have drawn upon him, but still 
more to the fact that, the old linen-weaver in the neigh- 
bouring parish of Tarley being dead, his handicraft 
made him a highly welcome settler to the richer house- 
wives of the district, and even to the more provident 
cottagers, who had their little stock of yarn at the 
year's end. Their sense of his usefulness would have 
counteracted any repugnance or suspicion which was 
not confirmed by a deficiency in the quality or the tale^ 
of the cloth he wove for them. And the years had 
rolled on without producing any change in the impres- 
sions of the neighbours concerning Marner, except the 
change from novelty to habit. At the end of fifteen 
years the Eaveloe men said just the same things about 
Silas Marner as at the beginning : they did not say them 
quite so often, but they believed them much more 
strongly when they did say them. There was only one 
important addition which the years had brought: it 
was that Master Marner had laid by a fine sight of 
money somewhere, and that he could buy up "bigger 
men" than himself. 

^The measurement ; "tale" is akin to "tally," to keep account. 



40 SILAS MAENER 

But while opinion concerning him had remained 
nearly stationary, and his daily habits had presented 
scarcely any visible change, Marner's inward life had 
been a history and a metamorphosis, as that of every 
fervid nature must be when it has fled, or been con- 
demned to solitude. His life, before he came to Rave- 
loe, had been filled with the movement, the mental 
activity, and the close fellowship, which, in that day as 
in this, marked the life of an artisan early incorporated 
in a narrow religious sect, where the poorest layman lias 
the chance of distinguishing himself by gifts of speech, 
and has, at the very least, the weight of a silent voter in 
the government of his community. Marner was highly 
thought of in that little hidden world, known to itself as 
the church assembling in Lantern Yard ; he was believed 
to be a young man of exemplary life and ardent faith ; 
and a peculiar interest had been centred in him ever 
since he had fallen, at a prayer-meeting, into a mysteri- 
ous rigidity and suspension of consciousness,^ which, last- 
ing for an hour or more, had been mistaken for death. 
To have sought a medical explanation for this phenome- 
non would have been held by Silas himself, as well as by 
his minister and fellow-members, a wilful self -exclusion 
from the spiritual significance that might lie therein. 
Silas was evidently a brother selected for a peculiar dis- 
cipline ; and though the effort to interpret this discipline 
was discouraged by the absence, on his part, of any 
spiritual vision during his outward trance, yet it was 
believed by himself and others that its effect was seen in 

^ A cataleptic state, believed by the superstitious to be due 
to supernatural influence, and to contain mysterious revela- 
tions by unseen powers. Compare the visions of Joan of Arc. 



SILAS MARNER 41 

an accession of light and fervour. A less truthful man 
than he might have been tempted into the subsequent 
creation of a vision in the form of resurgent memory ; a 
less sane man might have believed in such a creation ; 
but Silas was both sane and honest, though, as with 
many honest and fervent men, culture had not defined 
any channels for his sense of mystery, and so it spread 
itself over the proper pathway of inquiry and knowledge. 
He had inherited from his mother some acquaintance 
with medicinal herbs and their preparation — a little 
store of wisdom which she had imparted to him as a 
solemn bequest — but of late years he had had doubts 
about the lawfulness of applying this knowledge, believ- 
ing that herbs could have no efficacy without prayer, 
and that prayer might suffice without herbs ; so that his 
inherited delight to wander tlu'ough the fields in search 
of foxglove and dandelion and coltsfoot, began to wear 
to him the character of a temptation. 

Among the members of his church there was one 
young man, a little older than himself, with whom he 
had long lived in such close friendship that it was tht 
-custom of their Lantern Yard brethren to call them 
David and Jonathan. The real name of the friend was 
lYilliam Dane, and he, too, was regarded as a shining 
instance of youthful piety, though somewhat given to 
over -severity towards weaker brethren, and to be so 
dazzled by his own light as to hold himself wiser than 
liis teachers. But whatever blemishes others might dis- 
cern in William, to his friend's mind he was faultless ; 
for Marner had one of those impressible self-doubting 
natures which, at an inexperienced age, admire impera- 
tiveness and lean on contradiction. The expression of 



42 SILAS MARNER 

trusting simplicity in Marner's face, heightened by that 
absence of special observation, that defenceless, deer-like 
gaze which belongs to large prominent eyes, was strongly 
contrasted by the self-complacent suppression of inward 
triumph that lurked in the narrow slanting eyes and 
compressed lips of William Dane. One of the most 
frequent topics of conversation between the two friends 
was Assurance of salvation : Silas confessed that he could 
never arrive at anything higher than hope mingled with 
fear, and listened with longing wonder when William 
declared that he had possessed unshaken assurance ever 
since, in the period of his conversion, he had dreamed 
that he saw the words "calling and election sure" stand- 
ing by themselves on a white page in the open Bible. 
Such colloquies have occupied many a pair of pale- 
faced weavers, whose unnurtured souls have been like 
young winged things, fluttering forsaken in the 
twilight. 

It had seemed to the unsuspecting Silas that the friend- 
ship had suffered no chill even from his formation of 
another attachment of a closer kind. For some months 
he had been engaged to a young servant -woman, waiting 
only for a little increase in their mutual savings in order 
to their marriage; and it was a great delight to him that 
Sarah did not object to William's occasional presence in 
their Sunday interviews. It was at this point in their 
history that Silas's cataleptic fit occurred during the 
prayer meeting; and amidst the various queries and 
expressions of interest addressed to him by his fellow- 
members, William's suggestion alone jarred with the 
general sympathy towards a brother thus singled out for 
special dealings. He observed that, to him, this trance 



SILAS MARNER 4S 

looked more like a visitation of Satan than a proof of 
divine favour, and exhorted hlr friend to see that he hid 
no accursed thing within his soul. Silas, feeling bound 
to accept rebuke and admonition as a brotherly office, 
felt no resentment, but only pain, at his friend's doubts 
concerning him; and to this was soon added some 
anxiety at the perception that Sarah's manner towards 
him began to exhibit a strange fluctuation between an 
effort at an increased manifestation of regai'd and invol- 
untary signs of shi'inking and dislike. He asked her if 
she wished to break off their engagement ; but she denied 
this: their engagement was known to the church, and 
had been recognized in the prayer meetings; it could 
not be broken off without strict investigation, and 
Sarah could render no reason that would be sanctioned 
by the feeling of the community. At this time the 
senior deacon was taken dangerously ill, and, being a 
childless widower, he was tended night and day by some 
of the younger brethren or sisters. Silas frequently 
took his turn in the night-watching with William, the 
one relieving the other at two in the morning. The 
old man, contrary to expectation, seemed to be on the 
way to recovery, when one night Silas, sitting up by his 
bedside, observed that his usual audible breathing had 
ceased. The candle was burning low, and he had to 
lift it to see the patient's face distinctly. Examination 
convinced him that the deacon was dead — had been 
dead some time, for the limbs were rigid. Silas asked 
himself if he had been asleep, and looked at the clock : 
it was already four in the morning. How was it that 
William had not come? In much anxiety he went to 
seek for help, and soon there were several friends 



44 SILAS MARNER 

assembled in the house, the minister among them, while 
Silas went away to his work, wishing he could have met 
William to know the reason of his non-appeai'ance. 
But at six o'clock, as he was thinking of going to seek 
his friend, William came, and with him the minister. 
They came to summon him to Lantern Yard, to meet 
the church members there ; and to his inquiry concern- 
ing the cause of the summons the only reply was, "You 
will hear." Nothing further was said until Silas was 
seated in the vestry, in front of the minister, with the 
eyes of those who to him represented God's people fixed 
solemnly upon him. Then the minister, taking out a 
pocket-knife, showed it to Silas, and asked him if he 
knew where he had left that knife? Silas said, he did 
not know that he had left it anywhere out of his own 
pocket — but he was trembling at this strange interroga- 
tion. He was then exhorted not to hide his sin, but to 
confess and repent. The knife had been found in the 
bureau by the departed deacon's bedside — found in the 
place where the little bag of church money had lain, 
which the minister himself had seen the day before. 
Some hand had removed that bag; and whose hand 
could it be, if not that of the man to whom the knife 
belonged? For some time Silas was mute with astonish- 
ment: then he said, "God will clear me: I know noth- 
ing about the knife being there, or the money being 
gone. Search me and my dwelling; you will find 
nothing but three pound five of my own savings, which 
William Dane knows I have had these six months." At 
this AVilliam groaned, but the minister said, "The proof 
is heavy against you, brother Marner. The money was 
taken in the night last past, and no man was with our 



SILAS MARNER 45 

departed brother but you, for William Dane declares to us 
that he was hindered by sudden sickness from going to 
take his place as usual, and you yourself said that he 
had not come ; and, moreover, you neglected the dead 
body." 

**I must have slept," said Silas. Then after a pause, 
he added, '*0r I must have had another visitation like 
that which you have all seen me under, so that the thief 
must have come and gone while I was not in the body, 
but out of the body. But, I say again, seai'ch me and 
my dwelling, for I have been nowhere else." 

The search was made, and it ended — in "William 
Dane's finding the well-known bag, empty, tucked 
behind the chest of drawers in Silas's chamber! On 
this William exhorted his friend to confess, and not to 
hide his sin any longer. Silas turned a look of keen 
reproach on him, and said, "William, for nine years 
that we have gone in and out together, have you ever 
known me tell a lie? But God will clear me." 

"Brother," said William, "how do I know what you 
may have done in the secret chambers of your heart, to 
give Satan an advantage over you?" 

Silas was still looking at his friend. Suddenly a deep 
flush came over his face, and he was about to speak 
impetuously, when he seemed checked again by some 
inward shock, that sent the flush back and made him 
tremble. But at last he spoke feebly, looking at 
William. 

"I remember now — the knife wasn't in my pocket." 

William said, "I know nothing of what you mean." 
The other persons present, however, began to inquire 
where Silas meant to say that the knife was, but he 



46 SILAS MARNER 

would give no further explanation: he only said, "I 
am sore stricken; I can say nothing. God will clear 
me." 

On their return to the vestry there was further deliber- 
ation. Any resort to legal measures for ascertaining the 
culprit was contrary to the principles of the church in 
Lantern Yard, according to which prosecution was for- 
bidden to Christians, even had the case held less scandal 
to the community. But the members were bound to 
take other measures for finding out the truth, and they 
resolved on praying and drawing lots.^ This resolution 
can be a ground of surprise only to those who are unac- 
quainted with that obscure religious life which has gone 
on in the alleys of our towns. Silas knelt with his 
brethren, relying on his own innocence being certified 
by immediate divine interference, but feeling that there 
was sorrow and mourning behind for him even then — 
that his trust in man had been cruelly bruised. The 
lots declared that Silas Marner loas guilty. He was 
solemnly suspended from church-membership, and called 
upon to render up the stolen money : only on confession, 
as the sign of repentance, could he be received once 
more within the folds of the church. Marner listened 
in silence. At last, when every one rose to depart, he 
went towards William Dane and said, in a voice shaken 
by agitation — 

**The last time I remember using my knife, was when 
I took it out to cut a strap for you. I don't remember 
putting it in my pocket again. You stole the money, 

^ The religious sect to which Marner belonged followed, as 
far as possible, the customs of Biblical times. This method 
of discovering a sinner recalls the incident of Jonah. 



SILAS MARNER 47 

and you have woven a plot to lay the sin at my door. 
But you may prosper, for all that : there is no just God 
that governs the earth righteously, but a God of lies, 
that bears witness against the innocent." 

There was a general shudder at this blasphemy. 

William said meekly, *'I leave our brethi-en to judge 
whether this is the voice of Satan or not. I can do 
nothing but pray for you, Silas." 

Poor Marner went out with that despair in his soul — 
that shaken trust in God and man, which is little short 
of madness to a loving nature. In the bitterness of his 
wounded spirit, he said to himself, ''^ She will cast me off 
too." And he reflected that, if she did not believe the 
testimony against him, her whole faith must be upset as 
his was. To people accustomed to reason about the 
forms in which their religious feeling has incorporated 
itself, it is difficult to enter into that simple, untaught 
state of mind in which the form and the feeling have 
never been severed by an act of reflection. We are apt 
to think it inevitable that a man in Marner 's position 
should have begun to question the validity of an appeal 
to the divine judgment by drawing lots ; but to him this 
would have been an effort of independent thought such 
as he had never known; and he must have made the 
effort at a moment when all his energies were turned into 
the anguish of disappointed faith. If there is an angel 
who records the sorrows of men^ as well as their sins, he 

^ A passage significant of George Eliot's attitude toward a 
sinner. Sin in her view, and in the modern scientist's view, 
is largely the result of circumstances over which the indi- 
vidual will has no control. Dante believed sin to be the per 
Version of the will, and the sinner to be inexcusable. 



48 SILAS MARNER 

knows how many and deep are the sorrows that spring 
from false ideas for which no man is culpable. 

Marner went home, and for a whole day sat alone, 
stunned by despair, without any impulse to go to Sarah 
and attempt to win her belief in his innocence. The 
second day he took refuge from benumbing unbelief, by 
getting into his loom and working away as usual ; and 
before many hours were past, the minister and one of 
the deacons came to him with the message from Sarah, 
that she held her engagement to him at an end. Silas 
received the message mutely, and then turned away from 
the messengers to work at his loom again. In little 
more than a month from that time, Sarah was married 
to William Dane ; and not long afterwards it was known 
to the brethren in Lantern Yard that Silas Marner had 
departed from the town. 



CHAPTER II 

Even people whose lives have been made various by 
learning, sometimes find it hard to keep a fast hold on 
their habitual views of life, on their faith in the Invis- 
ible, nay, on the sense that their past joys and sorrows 
are a real experience, when they are suddenly trans- 
ported to a new land, where the beings around them 
know nothing of their history, and share none of their 
ideas — where their mother earth shows another lap, and 
human life has other forms than those on which their 
souls have been nourished. Minds that have been 
unhinged from their old faith and love, have perhaps 
sought this Lethean influence of exile, in which the past 
becomes dreamy because its symbols have all vanished, 
and the present too is dreamy because it is linked with 
no memories. But even their experience may hardly 
enable them thoroughly to imagine what was the effect 
on a simple weaver like Silas Marner, when he left his 
own country and people and came to settle in Raveloe. 
Nothing could be more unlike his native town, set within 
sight of the widespread hillsides, than this low, wooded 
region, where he felt hidden even from the heavens by 
the screening trees and hedgerows. There was nothing 
here, when he rose in the deep morning quiet and 
looked out on the dewy brambles and rank tufted gi'ass, 
that seemed to have any relation with that life centring 
in Lantern Yard, which had once been to him the altar- 

49 



50 SILAS MARNER 

place of high dispensations. The whitewashed walls ;^ 
the little pews where well-known figures entered with a 
subdued rustling, and where first one well-known voice 
and then another, pitched in a peculiar key of petition, 
uttered plirases at once occult and familiar, like the 
amulet worn on the heart ; the pulpit where the minis- 
ter delivered unquestioned doctrine, and swayed to and 
fro, and handled the book in a long-accustomed manner ; 
the very pauses between the couplets of the hymn, as it 
was given out, and the recurrent swell of voices in song : 
these things had been the channel of divine influences 
to Marner — they were the fostering home of his religious 
emotions— they were Christianity and God's kingdom 
upon earth. A weaver who finds hard words in his 
hymn-book knows nothing of abstractions ; as the little 
€hild knows nothing of parental love, but only knows 
one face and one lap towards which it stretches its arms 
for refuge and nurture. 

And what could be more unlike that Lantern Yard 
world than the world in Kaveloe? — orchards looking lazy 
with neglected plenty; the large church in the wide 
church-yard, which men gazed at lounging at their own 
doors in service-time; the purple-faced farmers jogging 
along the lanes or turning in at the Rainbow; home- 
steads, where men supped heavily and slept in the light 
of the evening hearth, and where women seemed to be 
laying up a stock of linen for the life to come. There 
were no lips in Raveloe from which a word could fall 
that would stir Silas Marner 's benumbed faith to a 
sense of pain. In the early ages of the world, we know, 

' Note this description of the Dissenting chapel and its in- 
formal service. 



SILAS MaRNER 51 

it was believed that each territory was inhabited and 
ruled by its own divinities, so that a man could cross the 
bordering heights and be out of the reach of his native 
gods, whose presence was confined to the streams and 
the groves and the hills among which he had lived from 
his birth. And poor Silas was vaguely conscious of 
something not unlike the feeling of primitive men, when 
they fled thus, in fear or in sullenness, from the face of 
an unpropitious deity. It seemed to him that the Power 
he had vainly trusted in among the streets and at the 
prayer -meetings, was very far away from this land in 
which he had taken refuge, where men lived in careless 
abundance, knowing and needing nothing of that trust, 
which, for him, had been turned to bitterness. The 
little light he possessed spread its beams so narrowly, 
that frustrated belief was a curtain broad enough to 
create for him the blackness of night. 

His first movement after the shock had been to work 
in his loom ; and he went on with this unremittingly, 
never asking himself why, now he was come to Eaveloe, 
he worked far into the night to finish the tale of Mrs. 
Osgood's table-linen sooner than she expected — without 
contemplating beforehand the money she would put into 
his hand for the work. He seemed to weave, like the 
spider, from pure impulse, without reflection. Every 
man's work, pursued steadily, tends in this way to 
become an end in itself, and so to bridge over the love- 
less chasms of his life. Silas's hand satisfied itself with 
throwing the shuttle, and his eye with seeing the little 
squares in the cloth complete themselves under his 
effort. Then there were the calls of hunger ; and Silas, 
in his solitude, had to provide his own breakfast, din- 



52 SILAS MARNER 

ner, and supper, to fetch his own water from the well, 
and put his own kettle on the fire ; and all these immedi- 
ate promptings helped, along with the weaving, to 
reduce his life to the unquestioning activity of a spin- 
ning insect. He hated the thought of the past ; there 
was nothing that called out his love and fellowship 
toward the strangers he had come amongst; and the 
future was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that 
cared for him. Thought was arrested by utter bewilder- 
ment, now its old narrow pathway was closed, and affec- 
tion seemed to have died under the bruise that had fallen 
on its keenest nerves. 

But at last Mrs. Osgood's table-linen was finished, and 
Silas was paid in gold. His earnings in his native town, 
where he worked for a wholesale dealer, had been after 
a lower rate ; he had been paid weekly, and of his weekly 
earnings a large proportion had gone to objects of piety 
and charity. Now, for the first time in his life, he had 
five bright guineas put into his hand; no man expected 
a share of them, and he loved no man that he should 
offer him a share. But what were the guineas to him 
who saw no vista beyond countless days of weaving? It 
was needless for him to ask that, for it was pleasant to 
him to feel them in his palm, and to look at their bright 
faces, which were all his own: it was another element of 
life, like the weaving and the satisfaction of hunger, 
subsisting quite aloof from the life of belief and love 
from which he had been cut off. The weaver's hand 
had known the touch of hard-won money even before 
the palm had grown to its full breadth; for twenty 
years, mysterious money had stood to him as the symbol 
of earthly good, and the immediate object of toil. He 



SILAS MARNER 53 

had seemed to love it little in the years when every 
penny had its purpose for him ; for he loved the purpose 
then. But now, when all purpose was gone, that habit 
of looking towards the money and grasping it with a sense 
of fulfilled effort made a loam that was deep enough for 
the seeds of desire ; and as Silas walked homeward across; 
the fields in the twilight, he drew out the money and 
thought it was brighter in the gathering gloom. 

About this time an incident happened which seemed 
to open a possibility of some fellowship with his neigh- 
bours. One day, taking a pair of shoes to be mendedy 
he saw the cobbler's wife seated by the fire, suffering 
from the terrible symptoms of heart-disease and dropsy, 
w^hich he had witnessed as the precm'sors of his mother's 
death. He felt a rush of pity at the mingled sight and 
remembrance, and, recalling the relief his mother had 
found from a simple prepai'ation of foxglove, he prom- 
ised Sally Gates to bring her something that would ease 
her, since the doctor did her no good. In this office of 
chai'ity, Silas felt, for the first time since he had come 
to Raveloe, a sense of unity between his past and present 
life, which might have been the beginning of his rescue 
from the insect-like existence into which his nature had 
shrunk. But Sally Gates 's disease had raised her into a 
personage of much interest and importance among the 
neighbours, and the fact of her having found relief from 
drinking Silas Marner's "stuff" became a matter of 
general discourse. When Doctor Kimble gave physic, 
it was natural that it should have an effect ; but when a 
weaver, who came from nobody knew where, worked 
wonders wiili a bottle of brown waters, the occult cbar- 
acti'r of the process was evident. Such a sort of thing 



54 SILAS MARNER 

had not been known since the Wise Woman at Tarley 
died; and she had charms as well as * 'stuff :" everybody 
went to her when theh children had fits. Silas Marner 
must be a person of the same sort, for how did he know 
what would bring back Sally Gates 's breath, if he didn't 
know a fine sight more than that? The Wise Woman 
had words that she muttered to herself, so that you 
couldn't hear what they were, and if she tied a bit of 
red thread round the child's toe the while, it would keep 
off the water in the head. There were women in Rave- 
loe, at that present time, who had worn one of the Wise 
Woman's little bags round their necks, and, in conse- 
quence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann Coulter 
had. Silas Marner could very likely do as much, and 
more ; and now it was all clear how he should have come 
from unknown parts, and be so ** comical-looking." 
But Sally Gates must mind and not tell the doctor, for 
he would be sure to set his face against Marner : he was 
always angry about the Wise Woman, and used to 
threaten those who went to her that they should have 
none of his help any more. 

Silas now found himself and his cottage suddenly 
beset by mothers who wanted him to charm away the 
hooping-cough, or bring back the milk, and by men who 
wanted stuff against the rheumatics or the knots in the 
hands ; and, to secure themselves against a refusal, the 
applicants brought silver in then* palms. Silas might 
have driven a profitable trade in charms as well as in his 
small list of drugs ; but money on this condition was no 
temptation to him: he had never known an impulse 
towards falsity, and he drove one after another away 
'Tith growing irritation, for the news of him as a wise 



SILAS MARNER 65 

man had spread even to Tarley, and it was long before 
people ceased to take long walks for the sake of asking 
his aid. But the hope in his wisdom was at length 
changed into dread, for no one believed him when he 
said he knew no charms and could work no cures, and 
every man and woman who had an accident or a new 
attack after applying to him, set the misfortune down 
to Master Marner's ill-will and irritated glances. Thus 
it came to pass that his movement of pity towards Sally 
Gates, which had given him a transient sense of brother- 
hood, heightened the repulsion between him and his 
neighbours, and made his isolation more complete. 

Gradually the guineas, the crowns, and the half- 
crowns, grew to a heap, and Mai'ner drew less and less 
for his own wants, trying to solve the problem of keep- 
ing himself strong enough to work sixteen hours a day 
on as small an outlay as possible. Have not men, shut 
up in solitary imprisonment, found an interest in mark- 
ing the moments by straight strokes of a certain length 
on the wall, until the growth of the sum of straight 
strokes, arranged, in triangles, has become a mastering 
purpose? Do we not wile away moments of inanity or 
fatigued waiting by repeating some trivial movement or 
sound, until the repetition has bred a want, which is 
incipient habit? That will help us to understand how 
the love of accumulating money grows an absorbing pas- 
sion in men whose imaginations, even in the very begin- 
ning of their hoard, showed them no purpose beyond it. 
Marner wanted the heaps of ten to grow into a square, 
and then into a larger square ; and every added guinea, 
while it was itself a satisfaction, bred a new desire. In 
this strange world, made a hopeless riddle to him, he 



56 SILAS MARNER 

might, if he had had a less intense nature, have sat 
weaving, weaving — ^looking towards the end of his pat- 
tern, or towards the end of his web, till he forgot the 
riddle, and everything else but his immediate sensations ; 
but the money had come to mark off his weaving into 
periods, and the money not only grew, but it remained 
with him. He began to think it was conscious of him, 
as his loom was, and he would on no account have 
exchanged those coins, which had become his familiai's, 
for other coins with unknown faces. He handled them, 
he counted them, till their form and colour were like the 
satisfaction of a thirst to him ; but it was only in the 
night, when his work was done, that he drew them out 
to enjoy their companionship. He had taken up some 
bricks in his floor underneath his loom, and here he had 
made a hole in which he set the iron pot that contained 
his guineas and silver coins, covering the bricks with 
sand whenever he replaced them. Not that the idea of 
being robbed presented itself often or strongly to his 
mind : hoarding was common in country districts in those 
days ; there were old labourers in the parish of Eaveloe 
who were known to have their savings by them, prob- 
ably inside their flock-beds ;^ but their rustic neighbours, 
though not all of them as honest as their ancestors in 
the days of King Alfred, had not imaginations bold 
enough to lay a plan of burglary. How could they have 
spent the money in their own village without betraying 
themselves? They would be obliged to "run away" — a 
course as dark and dubious as a balloon journey. 

So, year after year, Silas Marner had lived in this soli- 
tude, his guineas rising in the iron pot, and his life nar- 

^ Rough mattresses stuffed with wool. 



SILAS MARNER 57 

rowing and hardening itself more and more into a mere 
pulsation of desii'e and satisfaction that had no relation 
to any other being. His life had reduced itself to the 
functions of weaving and hoarding, without any con- 
templation of an end towards which the functions 
tended. The same sort of process has perhaps been 
undergone by wiser men, when they have been cut off 
from faith and love — only, instead of a loom and a heap 
of guineas, they have had some erudite research, some 
ingenious project, or some well-knit theory. Strangely 
Marner's face and figure shrank and bent themselves 
into a constant mechanical relation to the objects of his 
life, so that he produced the same sort of impression as 
a handle or a crooked tube, which "has no meaning 
standing apart. The prominent eyes that used to look 
trusting and dreamy, now looked as if they had been 
made to see only one kind of thing that was very small, 
like tiny grain, for which they hunted everywhere : and 
he was so withered and yellow, that, though he was not 
yet forty, the children always called him "Old Master 
Marner." 

Yet even in this stage of withering a little incident 
happened, which showed that the sap of affection was 
not all gone. It was one of his daily tasks to fetch his 
water from a well a couple of fields off, and for this pur- 
pose, ever since he came to Kaveloe, he had had a brown 
earthenware pot, which he held as his most precious 
utensil among the very few conveniences he had granted 
himself. It had been his companion for twelve years, 
always standing on the same spot, always lending its 
handle to him in the early morning, so that its form had 
an expression for him of willing helpfulness, and the 



68 SILAS MARNER 

impress of its handle on his palm gave a satisfaction 
mingled with that of having the fresh clear water. One 
day as he was returning from the well, he stumbled 
against the step of the stile, and his brown pot, falling 
with force against the stones that overarched the ditch 
below him, was broken in tln^ee pieces. Silas picked up 
the pieces and carried them home with grief in his 
heart. The brown pot could never be of use to him any 
more, but he stuck the bits together and propped the 
ruin in its old place for a memorial. 

This is the history of Silas Marner, until the fifteenth 
year after he came to Raveloe.^ The livelong day he sat 
in his loom, his ear filled with its monotony, his eyes 
bent close down on the slow growth of sameness in the 
brownish web, his muscles moving with such even repe- 
tition that their pause seemed almost as much a constraint 
as the holding of his breath. But at night came his 
revelry: at night he closed his shutters, and made fast 
his doors, and drew forth his gold. Long ago the heap 
of coins had become too large for the iron pot to hold 
them, and he had made for them two thick leather 
bags, which wasted no room in their resting-place, but 
lent themselves flexibly to every corner. How the guin- 
eas shone as they came pouring out of the dark leather 
mouths ! The silver bore no large proportion in amount 
to the gold, because the long pieces of linen which 

^ The author began at the mid-point in the man's life, then 
returned to give his earlier history. This is the artistic prin- 
ciple of plunging in medias res; it is used, for example, in 
Tennyson's Idylls of the King. It has the advantage over 
straight-away narrative in that it introduces the reader at the 
start to the germinal incident of the drama. 



SILAS MARNER 59 

formed his chief work were always partly paid for in 
gold, and out of the silver he supplied his own bodily 
wants, choosing always the shillings and sixpences to 
spend in this way. He loved the guineas best, but he 
would not change the silver — the crowns and half-crowns 
that were his own earnings, begotten by his labour; he 
loved them all. He spread them out in heaps and 
bathed his hands in them ; then he counted them and 
set them up in regular piles, and felt their rounded out- 
line between his thumb and fingers, and thought fondly 
of the guineas that were only half earned by the work 
in his loom, as if they had been unborn children — 
thought of the guineas that were coming slowly through 
the coming years, through all his life, which spread 
far away before him, the end quite hidden by countless 
days of weaving. No wonder his thoughts were still 
with his loom and his money when he made his 
journeys through the fields and the lanes to fetch 
and carry home his work, so that his steps never 
wandered to the hedge-banks and the lane-side in search 
of the once familiar herbs : these too belonged to the 
past, from which his life had shrunk away, like a rivu- 
let that has sunk far down from the grassy fringe of its 
old breadth into a little shivering thread, that cuts a 
groove for itself in the barren sand. 

But about the Christmas of that fifteenth year, a 
second great change came over Marner's life, and his 
history became blent in a singular manner with the 
life of his neighbom's. 



CHAPTER III 

The greatest; man in Raveloe waa Squire Cass, who 
lived in the large red house with the handsome flight of 
stone steps in front and the high stables behind it, 
nearly opposite the church. He was only one among 
several landed parishioners, but he alone was honoured 
with the title of Squire; for though Mr. Osgood's family 
was also understood to be of timeless origin — the Rave- 
loe imagination having never ventured back to that fear- 
ful blank when there were no Osgoods — ^still, he merely 
owned the farm he occupied ; whereas Squire Cass had a 
tenant or two, who complained of the game to him quite 
as if he had been a lord. 

It was still that glorious war-time* which was felt to be 
a peculiar favour of Providence towards the landed inter- 
est, and the fall of prices had not yet come to carry the 
race of small squires and yeomen' down that road to ruin 
for which extravagant habits and bad husbandry were 
plentifully anointing their wheels. I am speaking now 

^ The Napoleonic wars, in which England played a leading 
part, occasioned a rise in the prices of agricultural and 
manufactured products. There was a temporary and delusive 
prosperity ; for a time, rents were high and the incomes of 
landowners were thereby increased. 

' Squire, a landed country gentleman, often a magistrate. 
Yeoman, an independent farmer, who, though not of gentlo 
blood, owns his own land. 

60 



SILAS MARNER 61 

in relation to Raveloe and the parishes that resembled 
it; for our old-fashioned country life had many differ- 
ent aspects, as all life must have when it is spread over 
a various surface, and breathed on variously by multi- 
tudinous currents, from the winds of heaven to the 
thoughts of men, which are forever moving and crossing 
each other with incalculable results. Eaveloe lay low 
among the bushy trees and the rutted lanes, aloof from 
the currents of industrial energy and Puritan earnest- 
ness : the rich ate and drank freely, accepting gout and 
apoplexy as things that ran mysteriously in respectable 
families, and the poor thought that the rich were 
entirely in the right of it to lead a jolly life ; besides, 
their feasting caused a multiplication of orts,^ which were 
ihe heirlooms of the poor. Betty Jay scented the boiling 
of Squire Cass's hams, but her longing. was arrested by 
the unctuous liquor in which they were boiled ; and when 
the seasons brought round the great merry-makings, 
they were regarded on all hands as a fine thing for the 
poor. For the Eaveloe feasts were like the rounds of 
beef and the barrels of ale — they were on a large scale, 
and lasted a good while, especially in the winter-time. 
After ladies had packed up their best gowns and top- 
knots in bandboxes, and had incurred the risk of fording 
streams on pillions with the precious burden in rainy or 
snowy weather, when there was no knowing how high 
the water would rise, it was not to be supposed that 
they looked forward to a brief pleasure. On this 
ground it was always contrived in the dark seasons, 
when there was little work to be done, and the hours 

^ Remnants of the food of the rich given to the poor. "Cold 
pieces" for beggars. 



62 SILAS MARNER 

were long, that several neighbours should keep open house 

in succession. So soon as Sqaire Cass's standing dishes 
diminished in plenty and freshness, his guests had noth- 
ing to do but to walk a little higher up the village to 
Mr. Osgood's, at the Orchards, and they found hams 
and chines^ uncut, pork-pies with the scent of the fire in 
them, spun butter in all its freshness — everything, in 
fact, that appetites at leisure could desue, in perhaps 
greater perfection, though not in greater abundance, 
than at Squire Cass's. 

For the Squire's wife had died long ago, and tl?e Red 
House was without that presence of the wife and mother 
which is the fountain of wholesome love and fear in par- 
lour and kitchen; and this helped to account not only 
for there being more profusion than finished excellence 
in the holiday provisions, but also for the frequency 
with which the proud Squire condescended to preside in 
the parlour of the Eainbow rather than under the shadow 
of his own dark wainscot; perhaps, also, for the fact 
that his sons had turned out rather ill. Eaveloe was 
not a place where moral censure was severe, but it was 
thought a weakness in the Squire that he had kept all 
his sons at home in idleness ; and though some licence 
was to be allowed to young men whose fathers could 
afford it, people shook their heads at the courses of the 
second son, Dunstan, commonly called Dunsey Cass, 
whose taste for swopping and betting might turn out to 
be a sowing of something worse than wild oats. To be 
sure, the neighbom's said, it was no matter what became 
of Dunsey — a spiteful jeering fellow, who seemed to 
enjoy his drink the more when other people went dry — 

* A bit of the backbone of an animal cut for cooking. 



SILAS MARNER 63 

always provided that his doings did not bring trouble on 
a family like Squire Cass's, with a monument in the 
church, and tankards older than King George. But it 
would be a thousand pities if Mr. Godfrey, the eldest, 
a fine open-faced good-natured young man who was to 
come into the land some day, should take to going along 
the same road with his brother, as he had seemed to do 
of late. If he went on in that way, he would lose Miss 
Nancy Lammeter ; for it was well known that she had 
looked very shyly on him , ever since last Whitsuntide 
twelvemonth, when there was so much talk about his 
being away from home days and days together. There 
was something wrong, more than common — that was 
quite clear; for Mr. Godfrey didn't look half so fresh- 
coloured and open as he used to do. At one time every- 
body was saying. What a handsome couple he and Miss 
Nancy Lammeter would make ! and if she could come to 
be mistress at the Red House, there would be a fine 
change, for the Lammeters had been brought up in 
that way, that they never suffered a pinch of salt to be 
wasted, and yet everybody in their household had of the 
best, according to his place. Such a daughter-in-law 
would be a saving to the old Squire, if she never brought 
a penny to her fortune ; for it was to be feared that, not- 
withstanding his incomings, there were more holes in 
his pocket than the one where he put his own hand in. 
But if Mr. Godfrey didn't turn over a new leaf, he 
might say *' Good-bye" to Miss Nancy Lammeter. 

It was the once hopeful Godfrey who was standing, 
with his hands in his side-pockets and his back to the 
fire, in the dark wainscoted parlour, one late November 
afternoon in that fifteenth year of Silas Marner's life at 



64 SILAS MARNER 

Baveloe. The fading grey light fell dimly on the walls 
decorated with guns, whij^s, and foxes' brushes, on coats 
and hats flung on the chairs, on tankards sending forth 
a scent of flat ale, and on a half-choked fire, with pipes 
propped lip in the chimney-corners : signs of a domestic 
life destitute of any hallowing charm, with which the 
look of gloomy vexation on Godfrey's blond face was in 
«ad accordance. He seemed to be waiting and listening 
for some one's approach, and presently the sound of a 
heavy step, with an accompanying whistle, was heard 
across the large empty entrance -hall. 

The door opened, and a thick-set, heavy-looking 
young man entered, with the flushed face and the 
gratuitously elated bearing which mark the first stage of 
intoxication. It was Dunsey, and at the sight of him 
Godfrey's face parted with some of its gloom to take on 
the more active expression of hatred. The handsome 
^rown spaniel that lay on the hearth retreated under the 
chair in the chimney-corner. 

*'Well, Master Godfrey, what do you want with me?" 
isaid Dunsey, in a mocking tone. "You're my elders 
and betters, you know ; I was obliged to come when you 
aent for me." 

■"^Why, this is what I want — and just shake yourself 
sober and listen, will you?" said Godfrey, savagely. He 
■had himself been drinking more than was good for him, 
trying to turn his gloom into uncalculating auger. *'I 
want to tell you, I must hand over that rent of Fowler's 
to the Squire, or else tell him I gave it you ; for he's 
threatening to distrain for it, and it'll all be out soon, 
whether I tell him or not. He said, just now, before 
h.^ went out, he should send word to Cox to distrain, if 



SILAS MAENER 65 

Fowler didn't come and pay up his arrears this week 
The Squire's short o' cash, and in no humour to stand 
any nonsense; and you know what he threatened, if 
ever he found you making away with his money again. 
So, see and get the money, and pretty quickly, will 
you?'* 

"Oh!" said Dunsey, sneeringly, coming nearer to his 
brother and looking in his face. ** Suppose, now, you 
get the money yourself, and save me the trouble, eh? 
Since you was so kind as to hand it over to me, you'll 
not refuse me the kindness to pay it back for me : it was 
your brotherly love made you do it, you know." 

Godfrey bit his lips and clenched his fist. "Don^t 
come near me with that look, else I'll knock you down.^' 

'*0h no, you won't," said Dunsey, turning away on 
his heel, however. "Because I'm such a good-natured 
brother, you know. I might get you turned out of 
house and home, and cut off with a shilling any day. I 
might tell the Squire how his handsome son was married 
to that nice young woman, Molly Farren, and was very 
unhappy because he couldn't live with his drunkei) 
wife, and I should slip into your place as comfortable as 
could be. But you see, I don't do it — I'm so easy and 
good-natured. You'll take any trouble for me. You'll 
get the hundred pounds for me — I know you will." 

"How can I get the money?" said Godfrey, quiver- 
ing. "I haven't a shilling to bless myself with. And 
it's a lie that you'd slip into my place: you'd get your- 
self turned out too, that's all. For if you begin telling 
tales, 1*11 follow. Bob's my father's favourite — you 
know that very well. He'd only think himself well rid 
of you." 



66 SILAS MARNER 

''Never mind," said Dunsey, nodding his head side- 
ways as he looked out of the window. "It 'ud be very 
pleasant to me to go in your company — ^you're such a 
handsome brother, and we've always been so fond of 
quarrelling with one another, I shouldn't know what to 
do without you. But you'd like better for us both to 
stay at home together; I know you would. So you'll 
manage to get that little sum o' money, and I'll bid you 
good-bye, though I'm sorry to part." 

Dunstan was moving off, but Godfrey rushed after him^ 
and seized him by the arm, saying, with an oath — 

*'I tell you, I have no money: I can get no money." 

*'Borrow of old Kimble." 

*'I tell you, he won't lend me any more, and I shan't 
ask him." 

''Well, then, sell Wildfire." 

**Yes, that's easy talking. I must have the money 
directly." 

*'Well, you've only got to ride him to the hunt to- 
morrow. There'll be Bryce and Keating there, for sure. 
You'll get more bids than one." 

*'I daresay, and get back home at eight o'clock, 
splashed up to the chin. I'm going to Mrs. Osgood's 
birthday dance." 

"Oho!" said Dunsey, turning his head on one side, 
and trying to speak in a small mincing treble. "And 
there's sweri Miss Nancy coming; and we shall dance 
with her, and promise never to be naughty again, and 
be taken into favour, and " 

"Hold your tongue about Miss Nancy, you fool," said 
Godfrey, turning red, "else I'll throttle you." 

"What for?" said Dunsey, still in an artificial tone, 



SILAS MARNER 67 

but taking a whip from the table and beating the butt- 
end of it on his palm. "You've a very good chance. 
I'd advise you to creep up her sleeve again :^ it 'ud be 
saving time, if Molly should happen to take a drop too 
much laudanum some day, and make a widower of you. 
Miss Nancy wouldn't mind being a second, if she didn't 
know it. And you've got a good-natured brother, 
who'll keep your secret well, because you'll be so very 
obliging to him." 

"I'll tell you what it is," said Godfrey, quivering, 
and pale again, "my patience is pretty near at an end. 
If you'd a little more sharpness in you, you might know 
that you may urge a man a bit too far, and make one 
leap as easy as another. I don't know but what it is so 
now : I may as well tell the Squire everything myself — I 
should get you off my back, if I got nothing else. And, 
after all, he'll know some time. She's been threatening 
to come herself and tell him. So, don't flatter yourself 
that your secrecy's worth any price you choose to ask. 
You drain me of money till I have got nothing to pacify 
her with, and she'll do as she threatens some day. It's 
all one. I'll tell my father everything myself, and you 
may go to the devil." 

Dunsey perceived that he had overshot his mai'k, and 
that there was a point at which even the hesitating God- 
frey might be driven into decision. But he said, with 
an air of unconcern — 

"As you please; but I'll have a draught of ale first." 
And ringing the bell, he tln'ew himself across two chairs, 
and began to rap the window-seat with the handle of his 
whip. 

* A figure of speech meaning ''to get into her good graces." 



68 SILAS MARNER 

Godfrey stood, still with his back to the fire, uneasily 
moving his fingers among the contents of his side-pock- 
ets, and looking at the floor. That big muscular frame 
of his held plenty of animal courage, but helped him to 
no decision when the dangers to be braved were such as 
could neither be knocked down nor throttled. His 
natural irresolution and moral cowardice^ were exagger- 
ated by a position in which dreaded consequences seemed 
to press equally on all sides, and his irritation had no 
sooner provoked him to defy Dunstan and anticipate all 
possible betrayals, than the miseries he must bring on 
himself by such a step seemed more unendurable to 
him than the present evil. The results of confession 
were not contingent, they were certain; whereas betrayal 
was not certain. From the near vision of that certainty 
he fell back on suspense and vacillation with a sense of 
repose. The disinherited son of a small squire, equally 
disinclined to dig and to beg, was almost as helpless as 
an uprooted tree, which, by the favour of earth and sky, 
has grown to a handsome bulk on the spot where it first 
shot upward. Perhaps it would have been possible to 
think of digging with some cheerfulness if Nancy Lam- 
meter were to be won on those terms; but, since he 
must irrevocably lose her as well as the inheritance, and 
must break every tie but the one that degraded him and 
left him without motive for trying to recover his better 
self, he could imagine no future for himself on the 
other side of confession but that of " 'listing for a 
soldier" — the most desperate step, short of suicide, in 
the eyes of respectable families. No! he would rather 

1 The key notes of Godfrey "s character. Note how he acts, 
or fails to act, in critical moments. 



SILAS MARNER 69 

trust to casualties than to his own resolve — rather go on 
sitting at the feast, and sipping the wine he loved, 
though with the sword hanging over him and terror in his 
heart, than rush away into the cold darkness where there 
was no pleasure left. The utmost concession to Dun- 
stan about the horse began to seem easy, compared with 
the fulfilment of his own threat. But his pride would 
not let him recommence the conversation otherwise than 
by continuing the quarrel. Dunstan was waiting for 
this, and took his ale in shorter draughts than 
usual. 

**It's just like you," Godfrey burst out, in a bitter 
tone, *'to talk about my selling Wildfire in that cool 
way — the last thing I've got to call my own, and the 
best bit of horse-flesh I ever had in my life. And if 
you'd got a spark of pride in you, you'd be ashamed to 
see the stables emptied, and everybody sneering about 
it. But it's my belief you'd sell yourself, if it was only 
for the pleasure of making somebody feel he'd got a bad 
bargain." 

"Ay, ay," said Dunstan, very placably, **you do me 
justice, I see. You know I'm a jewel for 'ticing people 
into bargains. For which reason I advise you to let me 
sell Wildfire. I'd ride him to the hunt to-morrow for 
you, with pleasure. I shouldn't look so handsome as 
you in the saddle, but it's the horse they'll bid for, and 
not the rider." 

*'Yes, I daresay — trust my horse to you!" 

**As you please," said Dunstan, rapping the window- 
seat again with an air of great unconcern. "It's you 
have got to pay Fowler's money; it's none of my busi- 
ness. You received the money from him when you 



70 SILAS MARNER 

went to Bramcote, and you told the Squire it wasn't 
paid. I'd nothing to do with that ; you chose to be so 
obliging as to give it to me, that was all. If you don't 
want to pay the money, let it alone; it's all one to me. 
But I was willing to accommodate you by undertaking 
to sell the horse, seeing it's not convenient to you to go 
so far to-morrow." 

Godfrey was silent for some moments. He would 
have liked to spring on Dunstan, wrench the whip from 
nis hand, and flog him to within an inch of his life; 
and no bodily fear could have deterred him ; but he was 
mastered by another sort of fear, which was fed by feel- 
ings stronger even than his resentment. When he spoke 
again it was in a half-conciliatory tone. 

"Well, you mean no nonsense about the horse, eh? 
You'll sell him all fair, and hand over the money? If 
you don't, you know, everything 'ull go to smash, for 
I've got nothing else to trust to. And you'll have less 
pleasure in pulling the house over my head, when your 
own skull's to be broken too." 

**Ay, ay," said Dunstan, rising; '*all right. I 
thought you'd come round. I'm the fellow to bring old 
Bryce up to the scratch. I'll get you a hundred and 
twenty for him, if I get you a penny. ' ' 

"But it'll perhaps rain cats and dogs to-morrow, as it 
did yesterday, and then you can't go," said Godfrey, 
hardly knowing whether he wished for that obstacle or 
not. 

"!N"ot tV," said Dunstan. "I'm always lucky in my 
weather. It might rain if you wanted to go yourself. 
You never hold trumps, 5^ou know — I always do. 
You've got the beauty, you see, and I've got the luck, 



SILAS MARNER 71 

80 you must keep me by you for your crooked sixpence ;* 
you'll ne-NQi get along without me." 

*' Confound you, hold your tongue!" said Godfrey, 
impetuously. **And take care to keep sober to-morrow, 
else you'll get pitched on your head coming home, and 
Wildfire might be the worse for it." 

**Make your tender heart easy," said Dunstan, open- 
ing the door. *'You never knew me see double when 
I'd got a bargain to make; it 'ud spoil the fun. 
Besides, whenever I fall, I'm warranted to fall on my 
legs." 

With that, Dunstan slammed the door behind him, 
and left Godfrey to that bitter rumination on his per- 
sonal circumstances which was now unbroken from day 
to day save by the excitement of sporting, drinking, 
card-playing, or the rarer and less oblivious pleasure of 
seeing Miss Nancy Lammeter. The subtle and varied 
pains springing from the higher sensibility that accom- 
panies higher culture, are perhaps less pitiable than that 
dreary absence of impersonal enjoyment and consolation 
which leaves ruder minds to the perpetual urgent com- 
panionship of their own griefs and discontents. The 
lives of those rural forefathers, whom we are apt to 
think very prosaic figures — men whose only work was to 
ride round their land, getting heavier and heavier in 
their saddles, and who passed the rest of their days in 
the half -listless gratification of senses dulled by monot- 
ony — had a certain pathos in them nevertheless. 
Calamities came to them too, and their early errors 
carried hard consequences: perhaps the love of some 
sweet maiden, the image of purity, order, and calm, had 

^ A coin carried for luck. 



72 SILAS MARNER 

opened their eyes to the vision of a life in which the 
days wonld not seem too long, even without rioting; 
but the maiden was lost, and the vision passed away, 
and then what was left to them, especially when they 
had become too heavy for the hunt, or for carrying a 
gun over the furrows, but to drink and get merry, or to 
drink and get angry, so that they might be independent 
of variety, and say over again with eager emphasis the 
things they had said already any time that twelvemonth? 
Assuredly, among these flushed and dull-eyed men there 
were some whom — thanks to their native human kind- 
ness — even riot could never drive into brutality; men 
who, when their cheeks were fresh, had felt the keen 
point of sorrow or remorse, had been pierced by the 
reeds they leaned on, or had lightly put their limbs in 
fetters from which no struggle could loose them; and 
under these sad circumstances, common to us all, their 
thoughts could find no resting-place outside the ever 
trodden round of their own petty history. 

That, at least, was the condition of Godfrey Cass in 
this six-and-twentieth year of his life. A movement of 
compunction, helped by those small indefinable influences 
which every personal relation exerts on a pliant nature, 
had urged him into a secret marriage, which was a 
blight on his life. It was an ugly story of low passion,^ 
delusion, and waking from delusion, which needs not to 
be dragged from the privacy of Godfrey's bitter mem- 

^ George Eliot is a realist, but she avoids or passes over loath- 
some details. A reahst of the French school would probably 
have emphasized these details, and, perhaps, made of this 
episode a chief theme of the book. We should distinguish 
between the various kinds of realism. That of George Eliot 
is commendable both for its truth and its good taste. 



1?ILAS MARNER 73 

ory. He had long known that the delusion was partly 
due to a trap laid for him by Dunstan, who saw in his 
brother's degrading marriage the means of gratifying at 
once his jealous hate and his cupidity. And if Godfrey 
could have felt himself simply a victim, the iron bit that 
destiny had put into his mouth would have chafed him 
less intolerably. If the curses he muttered half aloud 
when he was alone had had no other object than Dun- 
stan 's diabolical cunning, he might have shrunk less 
from the consequences of avowal. But he had some- 
thing else to curse — ^his own vicious folly, which now 
seemed as mad and unaccountable to him as almost all 
our follies and vices do when their promptings have long 
passed away. Eor four years he had thought of Nancy 
Lammeter, and wooed her with tacit patient worship, 
as the woman who made him think of the future with 
joy : she would be his wife, and would make home lovely 
to him, as his father's home had never been; and it 
would be easy, when she was always near, to shake off 
those foolish habits that were no pleasures, but only a 
feverish way of annulling vacancy. Godfrey's was an 
essentially domestic nature, bred up in a home where 
the hearth had no smiles, and where the daily habits 
were not chastised by the presence of household order. 
His easy disposition made him fall in unresistingly with 
the family courses, but the need of some tender perma- 
nent affection, the longing for some influence that would 
make the good he preferred easy to pursue, caused the 
neatness, purity, and liberal orderliness of the Lam- 
meter household, sunned by the smile of Nancy, to seem 
like those fresh bright hours of the morning when temp- 
tations go to sleep and leave the ear open to the voice of 



74 SILAS MARNER 

the good angel, inviting to industry, sobriety, and peace. 
And yet the hope of this paradise had not been enough 
to save him from a course which shut him out of it for 
ever. Instead of keeping fast hold of the strong silken 
rope by which Nancy would have drawn him safe to the 
green banks where it was easy to step firmly, he had let 
himself be dragged back into mud and slime, in which 
it was useless to struggle. He had made ties for him- 
self which robbed him of all wholesome motive and 
were a constant exasperation. 

Still, there was one position worse than the present : 
it was the position he would be in when the ugly secret 
was disclosed ; and the desire that continually triumphed 
over every other was that of warding off the evil day, 
when he would have to bear the consequences of his 
father's violent resentment for the wound inflicted on 
his family pride — would have, perhaps, to turn his back 
on that hereditary ease and dignity which, after all, was 
a sort of reason for living, and would carry with him the 
certainty that he was banished for ever from the sight 
and esteem of Nancy Lammeter. The longer the inter- 
val, the more chance there was of deliverance from some, 
at least, of the hateful consequences to which he had 
sold himself; the more opportunities remained for him 
to snatch the strange gratification of seeing Nancy, and 
gathering some faint indications of her lingering regard. 
Towards this gratification he was impelled, fitfully, 
every now and then, after having passed weeks in which 
he had avoided her as the far-off bright-winged prize 
that only made him spring forward and find his chain 
all the more galling. One of those fits of yearning was 
on him now, and it would have been strong enough to 



SILAS MARNER 75 

have persuaded him to trust Wildfire to Dunstan rather 
than disappoint the yearning, even if he had not had 
another reason for his disinclination towards the mor- 
row's hunt. That other reason was the fact that the 
morning's meet was near Batherley, the market- town 
where the unhappy woman lived, whose image became 
more odious to him every day ; and to his thought the 
whole vicinage was haunted by her. The yoke a man 
creates for himself by wrong-doing will breed hate in the 
kindliest nature; and the good-humoured, affectionate- 
hearted Godfrey Cass was fast becoming a bitter man, 
visited by cruel wishes, that seemed to enter, and 
depart, and enter again, like demons who had' found in 
him a ready-garnished home. 

What was he to do this evening to pass the time? He 
might as well go to the Rainbow, and hear the talk 
about the cock-fighting : everybody was there, and what 
else was there to be done? Though, for his own part, 
he did not care a button for cock-fighting. Snuff, the 
brown spaniel, who had placed herself in front of him, 
and had been watching him for some time, now jumped 
up in impatience for the expected caress. But Godfrey 
thrust her away without looking at her, and left the 
room, followed humbly by the unresenting Snuff — per- 
haps because she saw no other career open to her. 



CHAPTER rV 

DuNSTAiT Cass, setting off in the raw morning, at 
the judiciously quiet pace of a man who is obliged to 
ride to cover on his hunter, had to take his way along 
the lane which, at its farther extremity, passed hy the 
piece of unenclosed ground called the Stone-pit, where 
stood the cottage, once a stone-cutter's shed, now for 
fifteen years inhabited by Silas Marner. The spot 
looked very dreary at this season, with the moist trod- 
den clay about it, and the red, muddy water high up in 
the deserted quarry. That was Dunstan's first thought 
as he approached it ; the second was, that the old fool of 
a weaver, whose loom he heard rattling already, had a 
great deal of money hidden somewhere. How was it 
that he, Dunstan Cass, who had often heard talk of 
Marner 's miserliness, had never thought of suggesting 
to Godfrey that he should frighten or persuade the old 
fellow into lending the money on the excellent security 
of the young Squire's prospects? The resource oc- 
curred to him now as so easy and agreeable, especially as 
Marner 's hoard was likely to he large enough to leave 
Godfrey a handsome surplus beyond his immediate 
needs, and enable him to accommodate his faithful 
k*other, that he had almost turned the horse's head 
towards home again. Godfrey would be ready enough 
to accept the suggestion : he would snatch eagerly at a 
plan that might save him from parting with Wildfire. 

76 



SILAS MARNER 77 

But when Dunstan's meditation reached this point, the 
inclination to go on grew strong and prevailed. He 
didn't want to give Godfrey that pleasure: he preferred 
that Master Godfrey should be vexed. Moreover, Dun- 
stan enjoyed the self-important consciousness of having 
a horse to sell, and the opportunity of driving a bai'gain, 
swaggering, and possibly taking somebody in. He 
might have all the satisfaction attendant on selling his 
brother's horse, and not the less have the further satis- 
faction of setting Godfrey to borrow Marner's money. 
So he rode on to cover. 

Bryce and Keating were there, as Dunstan was quite 
sure they would be — he was such a lucky fellow. 

** Heyday!" said Bryce, who had long had his eye on 
Wildfire, * 'you're on your brother's horse to-day: how's 
that?" 

"Oh, I've swopped with him," said Dunstan, whose 
delight in lying, grandly independent of utility, was not 
to be diminished by the likelihood that his hearer would 
not believe him — "Wildfire's mine now." 

"What! has he swopped with you for that big-boned 
hack of yours?" said Bryce, quite aware that he should 
get another lie in answer. 

"Oh, there was a little account between us," said 
Dunsey, carelessly, "and Wildfire made it even. I 
accommodated him by taking the horse, though it was 
against my will, for I'd got an itch for a mare o' Jortin's 
— as rare a bit o' blood as ever you threw your leg across. 
But I shall keep Wildfire, now I've got him, though I'd 
a bid of a hundred and fifty for him the other day, from 
a man over at Flitton — he's buying for Lord Cromleck 
— a fellow with a cast in his eye, and a green waistcoat. 



78 SILAS MARNER 

But I mean to stick to Wildfire : I shan't get a better at 
a fence in a hurry. The mare's got more blood, but 
she's a bit too weak in the hind -quarters." 

Bryce of course divined that Dunstan wanted to sell 
the horse, and Dunstan knew that he divined it (horse- 
dealing is only one of many human transactions carried 
on in this ingenious manner) ; and they both considered 
that the bargain was in its first stage, when Bryce 
replied, ironically — m 

*'I wonder at that now; I wonder you mean to keep] 
him; for I never heard of a man who didn't want to sell] 
his horse getting a bid of half as much again as the! 
horse is worth. You'll be lucky if you get a hundred." ^ 

Keating rode up now, and the transaction became 
more complicated. It ended in the purchase of the 
horse by Bryce for a hundred and twenty, to be paid on 
the delivery of Wildfire, safe and sound, at the Batherley 
stables. It did occur to Dunsey that it might be wise 
for him to give up the day's hunting, proceed at once to 
Batherley, and, having waited for Bryce 's return, hire a 
horse to carry him home with the money in his pocket. 
But the inclination for a run, encouraged by confidence 
in his luck, and by a draught of brandy from his pocket- 
pistol at the conclusion of the bargain, was not easy to 
overcome, especially with a horse under him that would 
take the fences to the admiration of the field. Dunstan, 
however, took one fence too many, and got his horse 
pierced with a hedge-stake. His own ill-favoured per- 
son, which was quite unmarketable, escaped without 
injury; but poor Wildfire, unconscious of his price, 
turned on his flank and painfully panted his last. It 
happened that Dunstan, a short time before, having had 



SILAS MARNER 70 

to get down to arrange his stirrup, had muttered a good 
many curses at this interruption, which had thrown him 
in the rear of the hunt near the moment of glory, and 
under this exasperation had taken the fences more 
blindly. He would soon have been up with the hounds 
again, when the fatal accident happened; and hence he 
was between eager riders in advance, not troubling them- 
selves about what happened behind them, and far-off 
stragglers, who were as likely as not to pass quite aloof 
from the line of road in which Wildfire had fallen. 
Dunstan, whose nature it was to care more for immedi- 
ate annoyances than for remote consequences, no sooner 
recovered his legs, and saw that it was all over with 
Wildfire, than he felt a satisfaction at the absence of 
witnesses to a position which no swaggering could make 
enviable. Reinforcing himself, after his shake, with a 
little brandy and much swearing, he walked as fast as he 
could to a coppice on his right hand, through which it 
occurred to him that he could make his way to Batherley 
without danger of encountering any member of the hunt. 
His first intention was to hire a horse there and ride 
home forthwith, for to walk many miles without a gun 
in his hand and along an ordinary road, was as much 
out of the question to him as to other spirited young 
men of his kind. He did not much mind about taking 
the bad news to Godfrey, for he had to offer him at the 
same time the resource of Marner's money; and if God- 
frey kicked, as he always did, at the notion of making a 
fresh debt from which he himself got the smallest share 
of advantage, why, he wouldn't kick long: Dunstan felt 
sure he could worry Godfrey into anything. The idea 
of Marner's money kept growing in vividness, now the 



80 SILAS MARNER 

4 

want of it had become immediate ; the prospect of hav- 
ing to make his appearance with the muddy boots of a 
pedestrian at Batherley and to encounter the grinning 
queries of stablemen, stood unpleasantly in the way of 
his impatience to be back at Raveloe and carry out his 
felicitous plan; and a casual visitation of his waistcoat- 
pocket, as he was ruminating, awakened his memory to 
the fact that the two or tln*ee small coins his fore-finger 
encountered there, were of too pale a colour to cover that 
email debt, without payment of which the stable-keeper 
had declared he would never do any more business with 
Dunsey Cass. After all, according to the direction in 
W^hich the run had brought him, he was not so very 
much farther from home than he was from Batherley; 
but Dunsey, not being remarkable for clearness of head, 
was only led to this conclusion by the gradual perception 
that there were other reasons for choosing the unprece- 
dented course of walking home. It was now nearly four 
o'clock, and a mist was gathering: the sooner he got 
into the road the better. He remembered having 
crossed the road and seen the finger-post only a little 
while before Wildfire broke down; so, buttoning his 
coat, twisting the lash of his hunting-whip compactly 
round the handle, and rapping the tops of his boots 
with a self-possessed air, as if to assure himself that he 
was not at all taken by surprise, he set off with the 
sense that he was undertaking a remarkable feat of 
bodily exertion, which somehow and at some time he 
should be able to dress up and magnify to the admi- 
ration of a select circle at the Rainbow. When a young 
gentleman like Dunsey is reduced to so exceptional a 
mode of locomotion as walking, a whip in his hand is a 



\ 



SILAS MARNER 81 

desirable corrective to a too bewildering di'eamy sense of 
unwontedness in his position ; and Dunstan, as he went 
along through the gathering mist, was always rapping 
his whip somewhere. It was Godfrey's whip, which he 
had chosen to take without leave because it had a gold 
handle ; of course no one could see, when Dunstan held 
it, that the name Godfrey Cass was cut in deep letters 
on that gold handle — they could only see that it was a 
very handsome whip. Dunsey was not without fear that 
he might meet some acquaintance in whose eyes he 
would cut a pitiable figure, for mist is no screen when 
people get close to each other; but when he at last 
found himself in the well-known Raveloe lanes without 
having met a soul, he silently remarked that that was 
part of his usual good-luck. But now the mist, helped 
by the evening darkness, was more of a screen than he 
desired, for it hid the ruts into which his feet were liable 
to slip — hid everything, so that he had to guide his steps 
by dragging his whip along the low bushes in advance of 
the hedgerow. He must soon, he thought, be getting 
near the opening at the Stone-pits : he should find it 
out by the break in the hedgerow. He found it out, 
however, by another circumstance which he had not 
expected — namely, by certain gleams of light, which he 
presently guessed to proceed from Silas Marner's cottage. 
That cottage and the money hidden within it had been 
in his mind continually during his walk, and he had 
been imagining ways of cajoling and tempting the 
weaver to part with the immediate possession of his money 
for the sake of receiving interest. Dunstan felt as if 
there must be a little frightening added to the cajolery, 
for his own arithmetical convictions were not clear enough 



82 SILAS MARNER 

to afford him any forcible demonstration as to the 
advantages of interest ; and as for security, he regarded 
it vaguely as a means of cheating a man by making him 
believe that he would be paid. Altogether, the oper- 
ation on the miser's mind was a task that Godfrey would 
be sure to hand over to his more daring and cunning 
brother : Dunstan had made up his mind to that ; and by 
the time he saw the light gleaming through the chinks 
of Marner's shutters, the idea of a dialogue with the 
weaver had become so familiar to him, that it occurred 
to him as quite a natural thing to make the acquaint- 
ance forthwith. There might be several conveniences 
attending this course: the weaver had possibly got a 
lantern, and Dunstan was t^red of feeling his way. He 
was still nearly three-quarters of a mile from home, and 
the lane was becoming unpleasantly slippery, for the 
mist was passing into rain. He turned up the bank, 
not without some fear lest he might miss the right way, 
since he was not certain whether the light were in front 
or on the side of the cottage. But he felt the ground 
before him cautiously with his whip -handle, and at last 
arrived safely at the door. He knocked loudly, rather 
enjoying the idea that the old fellow would be fright- 
ened at the sudden noise. He heard no movement in 
reply : all was silence in the cottage. Was the weaver 
gone to bed, then? If so, why had he left a light? 
That was a strange forgetfulness in the miser. Dunstan 
knocked still more loudly, and, without pausing for a 
reply, pushed his fingers through the latch -hole, intend- 
ing to shake the door and pull the latch-string up and 
down, not doubting that the door was fastened. But, 
to his surprise, at this double motion the door opened, 



SILAS MARNER 83 

and he found himself in front of a bright fire which lit 
up every corner of the cottage — the bed, the loom, the 
three chairs, and the table — and showed him that Mar- 
ner was not there. 

Nothing at that moment could be much more inviting 
to Dunsey than the bright fire on the brick hearth : he 
walked in and seated himseK by it at once. There was 
something in front of the fire, too, that would have 
been inviting to a hungry man, if it had been in a differ- 
ent stage of cooking. It was a small bit of pork sus- 
pended from the kettle-hanger by a string passed 
through a large door-key, in a way known to primitive 
housekeepers unpossessed of jacks. But the pork had 
been hung at the farthest extremity of the hanger, 
apparently to prevent the roasting from proceeding too 
rapidly during the owner's absence. The old staring 
simpleton had hot meat for his supper, then? thought 
Dunstan. People had always said he lived on mouldy 
bread, on purpose to check his appetite. But where 
could he be at this time, and on such an evening, leav- 
ing his supper in this stage of preparation, and his door 
unfastened? Dunstan 's own recent difficulty in making 
his way suggested to him that the weaver had perhaps 
gone outside his cottage to fetch in fuel, or for some 
such brief purpose, and had slipped into the Stone-pit. 
That was an interesting idea to Dunstan, carrying con- 
sequences of entire novelty. If the weaver was dead, 
who had a right to his money? Who would know 
where his money was hidden? W7io would hnow that 
anybody had come to tahe it away? He went no farther 
into the subtleties of evidence: the pressing question, 
*' Where is the money?" now took such entire possession 



84 SILAS MARNER 

of him as to make him quite forget that the weaver's 
death was not a certainty. A dull mind, once arriving 
at an inference that flatters a desire, is rarely able to 
retain the impression that the notion from which the 
inference started was purely problematic. And Dun- 
stan's mind was as dull as the mind of a possible felon 
usually is. There were only three hiding-places where 
he had ever heard of cottagers' hoards being found: the 
thatch, the bed, and a hole in the floor. Marner's cot- 
tage had no thatch; and Dunstan's first act, after a 
train of thought made rapid by the stimulus of cupidity, 
was to go up to the bed ; but while he did so, his eyes 
travelled eagerly over the floor, where the bricks, dis- 
tinct in the fire-light, were discernible under the sprin- 
kling of sand. But not everywhere ; for there was one 
spot, and one only, which was quite covered with sand, 
and sand showing the marks of fingers, which had appar- 
ently been careful to spread it over a given space. It 
was near the treddles of the loom. In an instant Dun- 
stan darted to that spot, swept away the sand with his 
whip, and, inserting the thin end of the hook between 
the bricks, found that they were loose. In haste he 
lifted up two bricks, and saw what he had no doubt was 
the object of his search; for what could there be but 
money in those two leathern bags? And, from their 
weight, they must be filled with guineas. Dunstan felt 
round the hole, to be certain that it held no more; then 
hastily replaced the bricks, and spread the sand over 
them. Hardly more than five minutes had passed since 
he entered the cottage, but it seemed to Dunstan like a 
long while; and though he was without any distinct 
recognition of the possibility that Marner might b© 



SILAS MARNER 85 

alive, and might re-enter the cottage at any moment, he 
felt an undefinable dread laying hold on him, as he rose 
to his feet with the bags in his hand. He would hasten 
out into the darkness, and then consider what he should 
do with the bags. He closed the door behind him im- 
mediately, that he might shut in the stream of light : a 
few steps would be enough to carry him beyond betrayal 
by the gleams from the shutter-chinks and the latch- 
hole. The rain and darkness had got thicker, and he 
was glad of it; though it was awkward walking with 
both hands filled, so that it was as much as he could 
do to grasp his whip along with one of the bags. But 
when he had gone a yard or two, he might take his 
time. So he stepped forward into the darkness. 



CHAPTER V 

When Dunstan Cass turned his back on the cottage, 
Silas Marner was not more than a hundred yards away 
from it, plodding along from the village with a sack 
thrown round his shoulders as an over-coat, and with a 
horn lantern in his hand. His legs were weary, but his 
mind was at ease, free from the presentiment of change. 
The sense of security more frequently springs from habit 
than from conviction, and for this reason it often sub- 
sists after such a change in the conditions as might have 
been expected to suggest alarm. The lapse of time dur- 
ing which a given event has not happened, is, in this 
logic of habit, constantly alleged as a reason why the 
event should never happen, even when the lapse of time 
is precisely the added condition which makes the event 
imminent. A man will tell you that he has worked in 
a mine for forty years unhurt by an accident as a reason 
why he should apprehend no danger, though the roof 
is beginning to sink ; and it is often observable, that the 
older a man gets, the more difficult it is to him to retain 
a believing conception of his own death. This influence 
of habit Tv^as necessarily strong in a man whose life was so 
monotonous as Marner 's — who saw no new people and 
heard of no new events to keep alive in him the idea of 
the unexpected and the changeful; and it explains 
simply enough, why his mind could be at ease, though 
he had left his house and his treasure more defenceless 

86 



SILAS MARKER 87 

than usual. Silas was thinking with double compla- 
cency of his supper : fii'st, because it would be hot and 
savoury; and secondly, because it would cost him noth- 
ing. For the little bit of pork was a present from that 
excellent housewife, Miss Priscilla Lammeter, to whom 
he had this day carried home a handsome piece of linen ; 
and it was only on occasion of ^ present like this, that 
Silas indulged himself with roast-meat. Supper was his 
favourite meal, because it came at his time of revelry, 
when his heart warmed over his gold; whenever he had 
roast-meat, he always chose to have it for supper. But 
this evening, he had no sooner ingeniously knotted his 
string fast round his bit of pork, twisted the string 
according to rule over his door-key, passed it through 
the handle, and made it fast on the hanger, than he 
remembered that a piece of very fine twine was indispen- 
sable to liis * 'setting up" a new piece of work in his 
loom early in the morning. It had slipped his memory, 
because, in coming from Mr. Lammeter 's, he had not had 
to pass through the village ; but to lose time by going on 
errands in the morning was out of the question. It was 
a nasty fog to turn out into, but there were things Silas 
loved better than his own comfort ; so, drawing his pork 
to the extremity of the hanger, and arming himself with 
his lantern and his old sack, he set out on what, in 
ordinary weather, would have been a twenty minutes' 
errand. He could not have locked his door without 
undoing his well-knotted string and retarding his sup- 
per ; it was not worth his while to make that sacrifice. 
What thief would find his way to the Stone-pits on such 
a night as this? and why should he come on this particu- 
lar night, when he had never come through all the fif- 



88 SILAS MARNER 

teen years before? These qnestions were not distinctly 
present in Silas's mind; they merely serve to represent 
the vaguely -felt foundation of his freedom from anxiety. 

He reached his door in much satisfaction that his 
errand was done: he opened it, and to his short-sighted 
eyes everything remained as he had left it, except that 
the fire sent out a welcome increase of heat. He trod 
about the floor while putting by his lantern and throw- 
ing aside his hat and sack, so as to merge the marks of 
Duns tan's feet on the sand, in the marks of his own 
nailed boots. Then he moved his pork nearer to the 
fire, and sat down to the agreeable business of tending 
the meat and warming himself at the same time. 

Any one who had looked at him as the red light shone 
upon his pale face, strange straining eyes, and meagre 
form, would perhaps have understood the mixture of 
contemptuous pity, dread, and suspicion with which he 
was regarded by his neighbours in Eaveloe. Yet few 
men could be more harmless than poor Marner. In his 
truthful simple soul, not even the gi'owing greed and 
worship of gold could beget any vice dh'ectly injurious 
to others. The light of his faith quite put out, and his 
affections made desolate, he had clung with all the force 
of his nature to his work and his money ; and like all 
objects to which a man devotes himself, they had 
fashioned him into correspondence with themselves. 
His loom, as he wrought in it without ceasing, had in 
its turn wrought on him, and confirmed more and more 
the monotonous craving for its monotonous response. 
His gold, as he hung over it and saw it grow, gathered 
his power of loving together into a hard isolation like its 
own. 



SILAS MARNER 89 

As soon as lie was warm he began to think it would be 
a long while to wait till after supper before he drew out 
his guineas, and it would be pleasant to see them on the 
table before him as he ate his unwonted feast. For joy 
is the best of wine, and Silas's guineas were a golden 
wine of that sort. 

He rose and placed his candle unsuspectingly on the 
floor near his loom, swept away the sand without notic- 
ing any change, and removed the bricks. The sight 
of the empty hole made his heart leap violently, 
but the belief that his gold was gone could not come at 
once — only terror, and the eager effort to put an end to 
the terror. He passed his trembling hand all about the 
hole, trying to think it possible that his eyes had 
deceived him ; then he held the candle in the hole and 
examined it curiously, trembling more and more. At 
last he shook so violently that he let fall the candle, and 
lifted his hands to his head, trying to steady himself, 
that he might think. Had he put his gold somewhere 
else, by a sudden resolution last night, and then forgot- 
ten it? A man falling into dark waters seeks a momen- 
tary footing even on sliding stones ; and Silas, by acting 
as if he believed in false hopes, warded off the moment 
of despair. He seai'ched in every corner, he turned his 
bed over, and shook it, and kneaded it ; he looked in his 
brick oven where he laid his sticks. When there was no 
other place to be searched, he kneeled down again and 
felt once more all round the hole. There was no untried 
refuge left for a moment's shelter from the terrible 
truth. 

Yes, there was a sort of refuge which always comes 
with the prostration of thought under an overpowering 



90 SILAS MARNER 

passion: it was that expectation of impossibilities, 
that belief in contradictory images, which is still distinct 
from madness, because it is capable of being dissipated 
by the external fact. Silas got up from his knees 
trembling, and looked round at the table: didn't the 
gold lie there after all? The table was bare. Then he 
turned and looked behind him — looked all round his 
dwelling, seeming to strain his brown eyes after some 
possible appearance of the bags where he had already 
sought them in vain. He could see every object in his 
cottage — and his gold was not there. 

Again he put his trembling hands to his head, and 
gave a wild ringing scream, the cry of desolation. For 
a few moments after, he stood motionless ; but the cry 
had relieved him from the first maddening pressure of 
the truth. He turned, and tottered towards his loom, 
and got into the seat where he worked, instinctively 
seeking this as the strongest assurance of reality. 

And now that all the false hopes had vanished, and 
the first shock of certainty was past, the idea of a thief 
began to present itself, and he entertained it eagerly, 
because a thief might be caught and made to restore the 
gold. The thought brought some new strength with it, 
and he started from his loom to the door. As he opened 
it the rain beat in upon him, for it was falling more and 
more heavily. There were no footsteps to be tracked 
on such a night — footsteps? When had the thief come? 
During Silas's absence in the daytime the door had been 
locked, and there had been no marks of any inroad on 
his return by daylight. And in the evening, too, he 
said to himself, everything was the same as when he had 
left it. The sand and bricks looked as if they had not 



SILAS MARNER 91 

been moved. Was it a thief who had taken the bags? 
or was it a cruel power that no hands could reach which 
had delighted in making him a second time desolate? 
He shrank from this vaguer dread, and fixed his mind 
with struggling effort on the robber with hands, who 
could be reached by hands. His thoughts glanced at all 
the neighbours who had made any remarks, or asked any 
questions which he might now regard as a ground of 
suspicion. There was Jem Rodney, a known poacher, and 
otherwise disreputable : he had often met Marner in his 
journeys across the fields, and had said something jest- 
ingly about the weaver's money; nay, he had once irri- 
tated Marner, by lingering at the fire when he called to 
light his pipe, instead of going about his business. Jem 
Rodney was the man — there was ease in the thought. 
Jem could be found and made to restore the money: 
Marner did not want to punish him, but only to get 
back his gold which had gone from him, and left his 
soul like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert. The 
robber must be laid hold of. Marner 's ideas of legal 
authority were confused, but he felt that he must go and 
proclaim his loss ; and the great people in the village — 
the clergyman, the constable, and Squire Cass — would 
make Jem Rodney, or somebody else, deliver up the 
stolen money. He rushed out in the rain, under the 
stimulus of this hope, forgetting to cover his head, not 
caring to fasten his door ; for he felt as if he had noth- 
ing left to lose. He >an swiftly, till want of breath 
compelled him to slacken his pace as he was entering the 
village at the turning close to the Rainbow. 

The Rainbow, in Marner 's view, was a place of lux- 
urious resort for rich and stout husbands, whose wives 



92 SILAS MARNER 

had superfluous stores of linen ; it was the place where 
he was likely to find the powers and dignities of Kaveloe, 
and where he could most speedily make his loss public. 
He lifted the latch, and turned into the bright bar or 
kitchen on the right hand, where the less lofty custom- 
ers of the house were in the habit of assembling, the par- 
lour on the left being reserved for the more select society 
in which Squire Cass frequently enjoyed the double 
pleasure of conviviality and condescension. But the 
parlour was dark to-night, the chief personages who 
ornamented its circle being all at Mrs. Osgood's birth- 
day dance, as Godfrey Cass was. And in consequence 
of this, the party on the high -screened seats in the 
kitchen was more numerous than usual ; several person- 
ages, who would otherwise have been admitted into the 
parlour and enlarged the opportunity of hectoring and 
condescension for their betters, being content this even- 
ing to vary their enjoyment by taking their spirits -and- 
water where they could themselves hector and condescend 
in company that called for beer. 



CHAPTER VI 

The conversation, which was at a high pitch of ani- 
mation when Silas approached the door of the Rainbow, 
had, as usual, been slow and intermittent when the com- 
pany first assembled. The pipes began to be puffed in a 
silence which had an air of severity ; the more important 
customers, who drank spirits and sat nearest the fire, 
staring at each other as if a bet were depending on the 
first man who winked ; while the beer-drinkers, chiefly 
men in fustian^ jackets and smock-frocks,^ kept their 
eyelids down and rubbed their hands across their mouths, 
as if their draughts of beer were a funereal duty attended 
with embarrassing sadness. At last, Mr. Snell, the 
landlord, a man of a neutral disposition, accustomed to 
stand aloof from human differences as those of beings 
who were all alike in need of liquor, broke silence, by 
saying in a doubtful tone to his cousin the butcher — 

"Some folks 'ud say that was a fine beast you druv in 
yesterday, Bob?" 

The butcher, a jolly, smiling, red-haired man, was 
not disposed to answer rashly. He gave a few puffs 
before he spat and replied, "And they wouldn't be fur 
wrong, John." 

After this feeble delusive thaw, the silence set in as 
severely as before. 

^ Fustian is cloth of coarse cotton or corduroy. 
2 A smock-frock is a long, shirt-like outer garment, worn 
by the rural laborers in England. 

93 



94 SILAS MARNER 

"Was it a red Diirliam?" said the farrier,^ taking up 
the thread of discourse after the lapse of a few minutes. 

The farrier looked at the landlord, and the landlord 
looked at the butcher, as the person who must take the 
responsibility of answering. 

*'Eed it was," said the butcher, in his good-humoured 
husky treble — "and a Durham it was." 

"Then you needn't tell me who you bought it of," 
said the farrier, looking round with some triumph; "I 
know who it is has got the red Durhams o' this country- 
side. And she'd a white star on her brow, I'll bet a 
penny?" The farrier leaned forward with his hands on 
his knees as he put this question, and his eyes twinkled 
knowingly. 

"Well; yes — she might," said the butcher, slowly, 
considering that he was giving a decided affirmative. 
"I don't say contrairy." 

"I knew that very well," said the farrier, throwing 
himself backward again, and speaking defiantly; "if 7 
don't know Mr. Lammeter's cows, I should like to know 
who does — that's all. And as for the cow you've bought, 
bargain or no bargain, I've been at the drenching'' of her 
— contradick me who will." 

The farrier looked fierce, and the mild butcher's con- 
versational spirit was roused a little. 

'I'm not for contradicking no man," he said; "I'm 
for peace and quietness. Some are for cutting long ribs 
— I'm for cutting 'em short myself; but /don't quarrel 

' Sometimes a shoer of horses, at other times a veterinary 
surgeon. 

2 To drench an animal is to pour medicine forcibly down its 
throat. 



SILAS MARNER 95 

with 'em. All I say is, it's a lovely carkiss — and any- 
body as was reasonable, it 'ud bring tears into their eyes 
to look at it." 

"Well, it's the cow as I drenched, whatever it is," 
pursued the farrier angrily; "and it was Mr. Lam- 
meter's cow, else you told a lie when you said it was 
a red Durham." 

"T tell no lies," said the butcher, with the same mild 
huskiness as before, "and I contradick none — not if a 
man was to swear himself black : he's no meat o' mine, 
nor none o' my bargains. All I say is, it's a lovely 
carkiss. And what I say I'll stick to; but I'll quarrel 
wi' no man." 

"No," said the farrier, with bitter sarcasm, looking 
at the company generally; "and p'rhaps you aren't pig- 
headed ; and p'rhaps you didn't say the cow was a red 
Durham; and p'rhaps you didn't say she'd got a star on 
her brow — stick to that, now you're at it." 

"Come, come," said the landlord; "let the cow alone. 
The truth lies atween you: you're both right and both 
wrong, as I allays say. And as for the cow's being Mr. 
Lammeter's, I say nothing to that; but this I say, as 
the Kainbow's the Rainbow. And for the matter o' 
that, if the talk is to be o' the Lammeters, you know 
the most upo' that head, eh, Mr. Macey? You 
remember when first Mr. Lammeter's father come to 
these parts, and took the Warrens?" 

Mr. Macey, tailor and parish-clerk, the latter of which 
functions rheumatism had of late obliged him to share 
with a small -featured young man who sat opposite him, 
held his white head on one side, and twirled his thumbs 
with an air of complacency, slightly seasoned with criti- 



96 SILAS MAENER 

cism. He smiled pityingly, in answer to the landlord's 
appeal, and said — 

"Ay, ay; I know, I know; but I let other folks 
talk. I've laid by now, and gev up to the young uns. 
Ask them as have been to school at Tarley: they've 
learnt pernoiincing; that's come up since my day." 

"If you're pointing at me, Mr. Macey," said the 
deputy-clerk, with an air of anxious propriety, "I'm 
nowise a man to speak out of my place. As the psalm 
says — 

*I know what's right, nor only so. 
But also practise what I know. ' " 

"Well, then, I wish you'd keep hold o' the tune, 
when it's set for you; if you're for practising, I wish 
you'd -practise that," said a large jocose -looking man, 
an excellent wheelwright in his week-day capacity, but 
on Sundays leader of the choir. He winked, as he 
spoke, at t^vo of the company, who were.known officially 
as the "bassoon" and the "key-bugle," in the confi- 
dence that he was expressing the sense of the musical 
profession in Raveloe. 

Mr. Tookey, the deputy clerk, who shared the unpopu- 
larity common to deputies, turned very red, but replied, 
with careful moderation — "Mr. Winthrop, if you'll 
bring me any proof as I'm in the wrong, I'm not the 
man to say I won't alter. But there's people set up 
their own ears for a standard, and expect the whole 
choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I 
hope." 

"Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied 
with this attack on youthful presumption; "you're 
right there, Tookey: there's allays two 'pinions; there's 



SILAS MARNER 97 

the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion 
other folks have on him. There 'd be two 'pimona 
about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself." 

"Well, Mr. Macey," said poor Tookey, serious amidst 
the general laughter, "I undertook to partially fill up 
the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, 
whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; 
and it's one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir — 
else why have you done the same yourself?" 

**Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks," 
said Ben Winthrop. *'The old gentleman's got a gift. 
Why the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only 
to hear him sing the *Red Rovier;' didn't he, Mr. 
Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my little lad 
Aaron, he's got a gift — ^he can sing a tune off straight, 
like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you'd 
better stick to your * Amens' : your voice is well enough 
when you keep it up in your nose. It's your inside as 
isn 't right made for music : it 's no better nor a hollow 
stalk." 

This kind of unflinching frankness was the most 
piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, 
and Ben Winthrop 's insult was felt by everybody to have 
capped Mr. Macey 's epigram. 

*'I see what it is plain enough," said Mr. Tookey, 
unable to keep cool any longer. * 'There's a consperacy 
to turn me out o' the choir, as I shouldn't share the 
Christmas money — that's where it is. But I shall speak 
to Mr. Crackenthorp ; I'll not be put upon by no 
man." 

"Nay, nay, Tookey," said Ben Winthrop. "We'll 
pay you your share to keep out of it — that's what we'll 



98 SILAS MARNER 

do. There's things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides 
Tarmin." 

*'Come, come," said the landlord, who felt that pay- 
ing people for their absence was a principle dangerous to 
society; "a joke's a joke. We're all good friends here, 
I hope. We must give and take. You're both right 
and you're both wrong, as I say. I agree wi' Mr. 
Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine was 
asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's 
right and Winthrop's right, and they've only to split 
the difference and make themselves even." 

The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in 
some contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no 
ear for music himself, and never went to church, as 
being of the medical profession, and likely to be in 
requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having 
music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for 
Tookey's defeat and for the preservation of the 
peace. 

**To be sure," he said, following up the landlord's 
conciliatory view, *'we're fond of our old clerk; it's 
nat'ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a 
brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country- 
side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon lived in our 
village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, 
Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for noth- 
ing — ^that I would. " 

"Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey, in the height of compla- 
cency; **our family's been known for musicianers as far 
back as anybody can tell. But them things are dying 
out, as I tell Solomon every time he comes round; 
there's no voices like what there used to be, and there's 



SILAS MARNER 99 

nobod}^ remembers what we remember, if it isn't the old 
crows." 

"Ay, you remember when first Mr. Lammeter's 
father come into these parts, don't you, Mr. Macey?" 
said the landlord. 

"I should think I did," said the old man, who had 
now gone through that complimentary process necessary 
to bring him up to the point of narration; "and a fine 
old gentleman he was — as fine, and finer nor the Mr. 
Lam meter as now is. He came from a bit north 'ard, so 
far as I could ever make out. But there's nobody 
rightly knows about those parts : only it couldn't be far 
north 'ard, nor much different from this country, for he 
brought a fine breed o' sheep with him, so there must be 
pastures there, and everything reasonable. We beared 
tell as he'd sold his own land to come and take the War- 
rens, and that seemed odd for a man as had land of his 
own, to come and rent a farm in a strange place. But 
they said it was along of his wife's dying; though there's 
reasons in things as nobody knows on — that's pretty 
much what I've made out ; yet some folks are so wise, 
they'll find you fifty reasons straight off, and all the 
while the real reason's winking at 'em in the corner, 
and they niver see't. Howsomever, it was soon seen as 
we'd got a new parish'ner as know'd the rights and 
customs o' things, and kep a good house, and was well 
looked on by everybody. And the young man — that's 
the Mr. Lammeter as now is, for he'd niver a sister — 
soon begun to court Miss Osgood, that's the sister o' 
the Mr. Osgood as now is, and a fine handsome lass she 
was— eh, you can't think — they pretend this young lass 
is like her, but that's the way wi' people as don't know 

LcfO. 



100 SILAS MARNER 

what come before 'em. / should know, for I helped 
the old rector, Mr. Drumlow as was, I helped him 
marry 'em." 

Here Mr. Macey paused; he always gave his narrative 
in instalments, expecting to be questioned according to 
precedent. 

*'Ay, and a partic'lar thing happened, didn't it, Mr. 
Macey, so as you were likely to remember that mar- 
riage?" said the landlord, in a congratulatory tone. 

**I should think there did — a very partic'lar thing," 
said Mr. Macey, nodding sideways. *'For Mr. Drumlow 
— poor old gentleman, I was fond on him, though he'd 
got a bit confused in his head, what wi' age and wi' 
taking a drop o' summat warm when the service come 
of a cold morning. And young Mr. Lammeter he'd 
have no way but he must be married in Janiwary, which, 
to be sure, 's a unreasonable time to be married in, for 
it isn't like a christening or a burying, as you can't 
help ; and so Mr. Drumlow — poor old gentleman, I was 
fond on him — but when he come to put the questions, 
he put 'em by the rule o' contrairy, like, and he says, 
*Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded wife?' says he, 
and then he says, 'Wilt thou have this woman to thy 
wedded husband?' says he. But the partic'larest thing 
of all is, as nobody took any notice on it but me, and 
they answered straight off 'yes,' like as if it had been 
me saying *Amen' i' the right place, without listening 
to what went before." 

''But you knew what was going on well "enough, 
didn't you, Mr. Macey? You were live enough, eh?" 
said the butcher. 

"Lor bless you!" said Mr. Macey, pausing, and smil- 



SILAS MARNER 101 

ing in pity at the impotence of his hearer's imagination 
— "why, I was all of a tremble: it was as if I'd been a 
coat pulled by the two tails, like; for I couldn't stop 
the parson, I couldn't take upon me to do that; and 
yet I said to myself, I says, * Suppose they shouldn't be 
fast maiTied, 'cause the words are contrairy?' and my 
head went working like a mill, for I was allays 
nncommon for turning things over and seeing all round 
'em; and I says to myself, 'Is't the meanin' or the 
words as makes folks fast i' wedlock?' For the parson 
meant right, and the bride and bridegroom meant right. 
But then, when I come to think on it, meanin' goes but 
a little way i' most things, for you may mean to stick 
things together and your glue may be bad, and then 
where are you? And so I says to mysen, 'It isn't the 
meanin', it's the glue.' And I was worreted as if I'd 
got three bells to pull at once, when we went into the 
vestry, and they begun to sign their names. But 
Where's the use o' talking? — you can't think what goes 
on in a 'cute man's inside." 

"But you held in for all that, didn't you, Mr. 
Macey?" said the landlord. 

"Ay, I held in tight till I was by mysen wi' Mr. 
Drumlow, and then I out wi' everything, but respectful, 
as I allays did. And he made light on it, and he says, 
*Pooh, pooh, Macey, make yourself easy,' he says; 'it's 
neither the meaning nor the words — it's the regesteT 
does it — that's the glue.' So you see he settled it 
easy ; for parsons and doctors know everything by heart, 
like, so as they aren't worreted wi' thinking what's the 
rights and wrongs o' things, as I'n been many and 
many's the time. And sure enough the wedding turned 



102 SILAS MARNER 

out all right, on'y poor Mrs. Lammeter — ^that's Miss 
Osgood as was — died afore the lasses was growed up; 
but for prosperity and everything respectable, there's 
no family more looked on." 

Every one of Mr. Macey's audience had heard this 
story many times, but it was listened to as if it had been 
a favourite tune, and at certain points the puffing of the 
pipes was momentarily suspended, that the listeners 
might give their whole minds to the expected words. 
But there was more to come; and Mr. Snell, the land- 
lord, duly put the leading question. 

**Why, old Mr. Lammeter had a pretty fortin, didn't 
they say, when he come into these parts?" 

"Well, yes," said Mr. Macey; "but I daresay it's as 
much as this Mr. Lammeter 's done to keep it whole. 
For there was allays a talk as nobody could get rich on 
the Warrens: though he holds it cheap, for it's what 
they call Charity Land." 

"Ay, and there's few folks know so well as you how 
it come to be Charity Land, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the 
butcher. 

"How should they?" said the old clerk, with some 
contempt. "Why, my grandfather made the groom's 
livery for that Mr. Cliff as came and built the big stables 
at the Warrens. Why, they're stables four times as big 
as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing but bosses 
and hunting. Cliff didn't — a Lunnon tailor, some folks 
said, as had gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't 
ride; lor bless you! they said he'd got no more grip o' 
the boss than if his legs had been cross -sticks : my 
grandfather beared old Squire Cass say so many and 
many a time. But ride he would as if Old Harry had 



SILAS MARNER 103 

been a-driving him; and he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen; 
and nothing would his father have him do, but he must 
ride and ride — though the lad was frighted, they said. 
And it was a common saying as the father wanted to 
ride the tailor out o' the lad, and make a gentleman on 
him — not but what I'm a tailor myself, but in respect 
as God made me such, I'm proud on it, for 'Macey, 
tailor,' 's been wrote up over our door since afore the 
Queen's heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he 
was ashamed o' being called a tailor, and he was sore 
vexed as his riding was laughed at, and nobody o' the 
gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever, 
the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn't 
live long after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and 
they said he used to go out i' the dead o' the night, wi' 
a lantern in his hand, to the stables, and set a lot o' 
lights burning, for he got as he couldn't sleep; and 
there he'd stand, cracking his whip and looking at his 
bosses ; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn't 
get burnt down wi' the poor dumb creaturs in 'em. 
But at last he died raving, and tliey found as he'd left 
all his property. Warrens and all, to a Lunnon Charity, 
and that's how the Warrens come to be Charity Land; 
though, as for the stables, Mr. Lammeter never uses 'em 
— ^they're out o' all charicter — lor bless you! if you was 
to set the doors a-banging in 'em, it 'ud sound like 
thunder half o'er the parish." 

**Ay, but there's more going on in the stables than 
what folks see by daylight, eh, Mr. Macey?" said the 
landlord. 

*'Ay, ay; go that way of a dark night, that's all," 
said Mr. Macey, winking mysteriously, *'and then make 



104 SILAS MARNER 

believe, if you like, as you didn't see lights i' the 
stables, nor hear the stamping o' the bosses, nor the 
cracking o' the whips, and howling, too, if it's tow'rt 
daybreak. * Cliff's Holiday' has been the name of it 
ever sin' I were a boy; that's to say, some said as it was 
the holiday Old Harry gev him from roasting, like. 
That's what my father told me, and he was a reasonable 
man, though there's folks nowadays know what hap- 
pened afore they were born better nor they know their 
own business." 

**What do you say to that, eh, Dowlas?" said the land- 
lord, turning to the farrier, who was swelling with 
impatience for his cue. ** There's a nut for you to 
crack." 

Mr. Dowlas was the negative spirit in the company, 
and was proud of his position. 

**Say? I say what a man should say as doesn't shut 
his eyes to look at a finger-post. I say, as I'm ready to 
wager any man ten pound, if he'll stand out wi' me any 
dry night in the pasture before the Warren stables, as 
we shall neither see lights nor hear noises, if it isn't the 
blowing of our own noses. That's what I say, and I've 
said it many a time; but there's nobody 'ull ventur a 
ten-pun' note on their ghos'es as they make so sure of." 

''Why, Dowlas, that's easy betting, that is," said Ben 
Winthrop. "You might as well bet a man as he 
wouldn't catch the rheumatise if he stood up to's neck 
in the pool of a frosty night. It 'ud be fine fun for a 
man to win his bet as he'd catch the rheumatise. 
Polks as believe in Cliff's Holiday aren't a-going to ven- 
tur near it for a matter o' ten pound." 

*'If Master Dowlas wants to know the truth on it," 



SILAS MARNER 105 

said Mr. Macey, with a sarcastic smile, tapping his 
thumbs together, *'he's no call to lay any bet — let him 
go and stan' by himself — there's nobody 'nil hinder 
him ; and then he can let the parish 'ners know if they're 
wrong." 

''Thank you! I'm obliged to yon," said the farrier, 
with a snort of scorn. "If folks are fools, it's no busi- 
ness o' mine. / don't want to make out the truth about 
ghos'es : I know it a'ready. But I'm not against a bet 
— everything fair and open. Let any man bet me ten 
pound as I shall see Cliff's Holiday, and I'll go and stand 
by myself. I want no company. I'd as lief do it as I'd 
fill this pipe." 

"Ah, but who's to watch you, Dowlas, and see you do 
it? That's no fair bet," said the butcher. 

"Ko fair bet?" replied Mr. Dowlas, angrily. "I 
should like to hear any man stand up and say I want to 
bet unfair. Come now, Master Lundy, I should like to 
hear you say it. ' ' 

"Very like you would," said the butcher. "But it's 
no business o' mine. You're none o' my bargains, and 
I aren't a- going to try and 'bate your price. If any- 
body '11 bid for you at your own vallying, let him. I'm 
for peace and quietness, I am." 

"Yes, that's what every yapping cur is, when you 
hold a stick up at him," said the farrier. "But I'm 
afraid o' neither man nor ghost, and I'm ready to lay a 
fair bet. / aren't a turn-tail cur. " 

"Ay, but there's this in it, Dowlas," said the land- 
lord, speaking in a tone of much candour and tolerance. 
"There's folks, i' my opinion, they can't see ghos'es, 
not if they stood as plain as a pike-staff before 'em. 



106 SILAS MARNER 

And there's reason i' that. For there's my wife, now, 
can't smell, not if she'd the strongest o' cheese under 
her nose. I never see'd a ghost myself; but then I says 
to myself, *Very like I haven't got the smell for 'em.' 
I mean, putting a ghost for a smell, or else contrairi- 
ways. And so, I'm for holding with both sides; for, as 
I say, the truth lies between 'em. And if Dowlas was 
to go and stand, and say he'd never seen a wink o' Clijff's 
Holiday all the night through, I'd back him; and if 
anybody said as Cliff's Holiday was certain sure for all 
that, I'd back him too. For the smell's what I go by." 

The landlord's analogical argument was not well 
received by the farrier — a man intensely opposed to com- 
promise. 

**Tut, tut," he said, setting down his glass with 
refreshed irritation; ** what's the smell got to do with it? 
Did ever a ghost give a man a black eye? That's what 
I should like to know. If ghos'es want me to believe 
in 'em, let 'em leave off skulking i' the dark and i' lone 
places — ^let 'em come where there's company and 
candles." 

*'As if ghos'es 'ud want to be believed in by anybody 
so ignirant!" said Mr. Macey, in deep disgust at the 
farrier's crass incompetence to apprehend the conditions 
of ghostly phenomena. 



CHAPTER VII 

Yet the next moment there seemed to be some evi- 
dence that ghosts had a more condescending disposition 
than Mr. Macey attributed to them; for the pale thin 
figure of Silas Marner was suddenly seen standing in the 
warm light, uttering no word, but looking round at the 
company with his strange unearthly eyes. The long 
pipes gave a simultaneous movement, like the antennse 
of startled insects, and every man present, not excepting 
even the sceptical farrier, had an impression that he saw, 
not Silas Marner in the flesh, but an apparition ; for the 
door by which Silas had entered was hidden by the high- 
screened seats, and no one had noticed his approach. 
Mr. Macey, sitting a long way off the ghost, might 
be supposed to have felt an argumentative triumph, 
which would tend to neutralize his share of the general 
alarm. Had he not always said that when Silas Marner 
was in that strange trance of his, his soul went loose from 
his body? Here was the demonstration: nevertheless, 
on the whole, he would have been as well contented 
without it. For a few moments there was a dead 
silence, Marner 's want of breath and agitation not 
allowing him to speak. The landlord, under the 
habitual sense that he was bound to keep his house open 
to all company, and confident in the protection of his 
unbroken neutrality, at last took on himself the task of 
adjuring the ghost. * 

107 



108 SILAS MARNER 

**Master Marner," lie said, in a conciliatory tone, 
*' what's lacking to you? What's your business here?" 

"Robbed!" said Silas, gaspingly. "I've been robbed! 
I want the constable — and the Justice — and Squire Cass 
— and Mr. Orackenthorp. " 

"Lay hold on him, Jem Rodney," said the landlord, 
the idea of a ghost subsiding; "he's off his head, I 
doubt. He's wet through." 

Jem Rodney was the outermost man, and sat conven- 
iently near Marner's standing-place; but he declined to 
give his services. 

"Come and lay hold on him yourself, Mr. Snell, if 
you've a mind," said Jem, rather sullenly. "He's been 
robbed, and murdered too, for what I know," he added, 
in a muttering tone. 

"Jem Rodney!" said Silas, turning and fixing his 
strange eyes on the suspected man. 

"Ay, Master Marner, what do ye want wi' me?" said 
Jem, trembling a little, and seizing his drinking-can as 
d defensive weapon. 

"If it was you stole my money," said Silas, clasping 
his hands entreatingly, and raising his voice to a cry, 
"give it me back — and I won't meddle with you. I 
won't set the constable on you. Give it me back, and 
I'll let you — I'll let you have a guinea." 

"Me stole your money!" said Jem, angrily. "I'll 
pitch this can at your eye if you talk o' my stealing your 
money." 

"Come, come, Master Marner," said the landlord, 
now rising resolutely, and seizing Marner by the 
shoulder, "if you've got any information to lay, speak 
it out sensible, and show as you're in your right mind^ 



SILAS MARNER 109 

if you expect anybody to listen to you. You're as wet 
aa a drownded rat. Sit down and dry yourself, and speak 
straight forrard." 

"Ah, to be sure, man," said the farrier, who began 
to feel that he had not been quite on a par with himself 
and the occasion. "Let's have no more staring and 
screaming, else we'll have you strapped for a madman. 
That was why I didn't speak at the first — thinks I the 
man's run mad." 

"Ay, ay, make him sit down," said several voices at 
once, well pleased that the reality of ghosts remained 
still an open question. 

The landlord forced Marner to take off his coat, and 
then to sit down on a chair aloof from every one else, in 
the centre of the circle and in the direct rays of the fire. 
The weaver, too feeble to have any distinct purpose 
beyond that of getting help to recover his money, sub- 
mitted unresistingly. The transient fears of the com- 
pany were now forgotten in their strong curiosity, and 
all faces were turned towards Silas, when the landlord, 
having seated himself again, said — 

"Now then. Master Marner, what's this you've got to 
say — as you've been robbed? Speak out." 

"He'd better not say again as it was me robbed him," 
cried Jem Rodney, hastily. "What could I ha' done 
with his money? I could as easy steal the parson's 
surplice, and wear it." 

"Hold your tongue, Jem, and let's hear what he's got 
to say," said the landlord. "Now then, Master 
Marner." 

Silas now told his story, under frequent questioning as 
the mysterious character of the robbery became evident. 



110 SILAS MAENER 

This strangely novel situation of opening his trouble 
to his Eaveloe neighbours, of sitting in the warmth of a 
hearth not his own, and feeling the presence of faces 
and voices which were his nearest promise of help, had 
doubtless its influence on Marner, in spite of his passion- 
ate preoccupation with his loss. Our consciousness 
rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any 
more than without us : there have been many circula- 
tions of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the 
bud. 

The slight suspicion with which his hearers at first 
listened to him, gradually melted away before the con- 
vincing simplicity of his distress : it was impossible for 
the neighbours to doubt that Marner was telling the 
truth, not because they were capable of arguing at once 
from the nature of his statements to the absence of any 
motive for making them falsely, but because, as Mr. 
Macey observed, '* Folks as had the devil to back 'em 
were not likely to be so mushed"^ as poor Silas was. 
Eather, from the strange fact that the robber had left 
no traces, and had happened to know the nick of time, 
utterly incalculable by mortal agents, when Silas would 
go away from home without locking his door, the more 
probable conclusion seemed to be, that his disreputable 
intimacy in that quarter, if it ever existed, had been 
broken up, and that, in consequence, this ill turn had 
been done to Marner by somebody it was quite in vain to 
set the constable after. Why this preternatural felon 
should be obliged to wait till the door was left unlocked, 
was a question which did not present itself. 

^'Zt isn't Jem Rodney as has done this work, Master 

^Colloquial for "upset." 



SILAS MARNER 111 

Maxner," said the landlord. **You mustn't be a-cast- 
ing your eye at poor Jem. There may be a bit of a 
reckoning against Jem for the matter of a hare or so if 
anybody was bound to keep their eyes staring open, and 
niver to wink ; but Jem's been a-sitting here drinking 
his can, like the decentest man i' the parish, since 
before you left your house, Master Marner, by your own 
account." 

*'Ay, ay," said Mr. Macey; '*let's have no accusing 
o' the innicent. That isn't the law. There must be 
folks to swear again' a man before he can be ta'en up. 
Let's have no accusing o' the innicent. Master Marner." 

Memory was not so utterly torpid in Silas that it could 
not be wakened by these words. With a movement of 
compunction as new and strange to him as everything 
else within the last hour, he started from his chair, and 
went close up to Jem, looking at him as if he wanted ta 
assure himself of the expression in his face. 

"I was wrong," he said — **yes, yes — I ought to have 
thought. There's nothing to witness against you,. 
Jem. Only you'd been into my house oftener than any- 
body else, and so you came into my head. I don't 
accuse you — I won't accuse anybody — only," he added, 
lifting up his hands to his head, and turning away with 
bewildered misery, *'I try — I try to think where my 
guineas can be." 

"Ay, ay, they're gone where it's hot enough to melt 
'em, I doubt," said Mr. Macey. 

"Tchuh!" said the farrier. And then he asked, with 
a cross-examining air, "How much money might there 
be in the bags. Master Marner?" 

**Two hundred and seventy-two pounds, twelve and 



112 SILAS MARNER 

sixpence, last night when I counted it," said Silas, 
seating himself again, with a groan. 

*'Pooh! why, they'd be none so heavy to carry. 
Some tramp's been in, that's all; and as for the no 
footmarks, and the bricks and the sand being all right 
— ^why, your eyes are pretty much like a insect's. Master 
Marner; they're obliged to look so close, you can't see 
much at a time. It's my opinion as, if I'd been you, or 
you'd been me — for it comes to the same thing — you 
wouldn't have thought you'd found everything as you 
left it. But what I vote is, as two of the sensiblest o' 
the company should go with you to Master Kench, the 
constable's — ^he's ill i' bed, I know that much — and get 
him to appoint one of us his deppity ; for that's the law, 
and I don't think anybody 'uU take upon him to con- 
tradick me there. It isn't much of a walk to Kench's ; 
and then, if it's me as is deppity, I'll go back with you, 
Master Marner, and examine your premises ; and if any- 
body's got any fault to find with that, I'll thank him to 
stand up and say it out like a man." 

By this pregnant speech the farrier had re-estab- 
lished his self-complacency, and waited with confidence 
to hear himself named as one of the superlatively sensible 
men. 

*'Let us see how the night is, though," said the land- 
lord, who also considered himself personally concerned 
in this proposition. "Why, it rains heavy still," he 
said, returning from the door. 

"Well, I'm not the man to be afraid o' the rain," 
said the farrier. "For it'll look bad when Justice 
Malam hears as respectable men like us had a informa- 
tion laid before 'em and took no steps." 



SILAS MARNER 113 

The landlord agreed with this view, and after taking 
the sense of the company, and duly rehearsing a small 
ceremony known in high ecclesiastical life as the 710I0 
episcopari^ he consented to take on himself the chill 
dignity of going to Kench's. But to the farrier's 
strong disgust, Mr. Macey now started an objection to 
his proposing himself as a deputy-constable; for that 
oracular old gentlemen, claiming to know the law, 
stated, as a fact delivered to him by his father, that no 
doctor could be a constable. 

"And you're a doctor, I reckon, though you're only a 
cow-doctor, for a fly's a fly, though it may be a hoss 
fly," concluded Mr. Macey, wondering a little at his 
own " 'cuteness." 

There was a hot debate upon this, the farrier being of 
course indisposed to renounce the quality of doctor, but 
contending that a doctor could be a constable if he 
liked — the law meant, he needn't be one if he didn't 
like. Mr. Macey thought this was nonsense, since the 
law was not likely to be fonder of doctors than of other 
folks. Moreover, if it was in the nature of doctors more 
than of other men not to like being constables, how 
came Mr. Dowlas to be so eager to act in that capacity? 

"/don't want to act the constable," said the farrier, 
driven into a corner by this merciless reasoning; "and 
there's no man can say it of me, if he'd tell the truth. 
But if there's to be any jealousy and ent'^/ing aboui 
going to Kench's in the rain, let them go as like it — 
you won't get me to go, I can tell you." 

^ I do not wish to he a bishop. A phrase used by those ap- 
pointed bishops of the Established Church, The landlord, 
like the bishops, makes a pretence of taking the honor and 
responsibility unwillingly. 



114 SILAS MARNER 

By the landlord's intervention, however, the dispute 
was accommodated. Mr. Dowlas consented to go as a 
second person disinclined to act officially ; and so poor 
Silas, furnished with some old coverings, turned out 
with his two companions into the rain again, thinking 
of the long night hours before him, not as those do who 
long to rest, but as those who expect to ** watch for the 
morning." 



CHAPTER VIII 

When" Godfrey Cass returned from Mrs. Osgood's 
party at midnight, he was not much surprised to learn 
that Dunsey had not come home. Perhaps he had not 
sold Wildfire, and was waiting for another chance — per- 
haps, on that foggy afternoon, he had preferred housing 
himself at the Red Lion at Batherley for the night, if the 
run had kept him in that neighborhood ; for he was not 
likely to feel much concern about leaving his brother in 
suspense. Godfrey's mind was too full of Nancy Lam- 
meter's looks and behaviour, too full of the exasper- 
ation against himself and his lot, which the sight of her 
always produced in him, for him to give much thought 
to Wildfire, or to the probabilities of Dunstan's conduct. 
The next morning the whole village was excited by 
the story of the robbery, and Godfrey, like every one 
else, was occupied in gathering and discussing news 
about it, and in visiting the Stone-pits. The rain had 
washed away all possibility of distinguishing footmarks, 
but a close investigation of the spot had disclosed, in the 
direction opposite to the village, a tinder-box, with a 
flint and steel, half sunk in the mud. It was not Silas's 
tinder-box, for the only one he had ever had was still 
standing on his shelf; and the inference generally 
accepted was, that the tinder-box in the ditch was some- 
how connected with the robbery. A small minority 
shook their heads, and intimated their opinion that it 

115 



116 SILAS MARNER 

"was not a robbery to have much light thrown on it by 
tinder-boxes, that Master Marner's tale had a qneer look 
with it, and that such things had been known as a 
man's doing himself a mischief, and then setting the 
justice to look for the doer. But when questioned 
closely as to their grounds for this opinion, and what 
Master Marner had to gain by such false pretences, they 
only shook their heads as before, and observed that 
there was no knowing what some folks counted gain ; 
moreover, that everybody had a right to their own 
opinions, grounds or no grounds, and that the weaver, 
as everybody knew, was partly crazy. Mr. Macey, 
though he joined in the defence of Marner against all 
suspicions of deceit, also pooh-poohed the tinder-box; 
indeed, repudiated it as a rather impious suggestion, 
tending to imply that everything must be done by human 
hands, and that there was no power which could make 
away with the guineas without moving the bricks. 
Nevertheless, he turned round rather sharply on Mr. 
Tookey, when the zealous deputy, feeling that this was 
a view of the case peculiarly suited to a pai'ish -clerk, 
carried it still further, and doubted whether it was right 
to inquire into a robbery at all when the circumstances 
were so mysterious. 

"As if," concluded Mr. Tookey — "as if there was 
nothing but what could be made out by justices and 
constables." 

"Now, don't you be for overshooting the mark, 
Tookey," said Mr. Macey, nodding his head aside, 
admonishingly. "That's what you're allays at; if I 
throw a stone and hit, you think there's summat better 
than hitting, and you try to throw a stone beyond. 



SILAS MARNER 117 

What I said was against the tinder-box: I said nothing 
against justices and constables, for they're o' King 
George's making, and it 'ud be ill-becoming a man in a 
parish office to fly out again' King George." 

While these discussions were going on amongst the 
group outside the Rainbow, a higher consultation was 
being carried on within, under the presidency of Mr. 
Crackenthorp, the rector, assisted by Squire Cass and 
other substantial parishioners. It had just occurred to 
Mr. Snell, the landlord — he being, as he observed, a 
man accustomed to put two and two together — to con- 
nect with the tinder-box, which, as deputy-constable, he 
himself had had the honourable distinction of finding, 
certain recollections of a pedlar who had called to di'ink 
at the house about a month before, and had actually 
stated that he carried a tinder-box about with him to 
light his pipe. Here, surely, was a clue to be followed 
out. And as memory, when duly impregnated with 
ascertained facts, is sometimes surprisingly fertile, Mr. 
Snell gradually recovered a vivid impression of the effect 
produced on him by the pedlar's countenance and 
conversation. He had a ''look with his eye"which fell 
unpleasantly on Mr. Snell's sensitive organism. To be 
sure, he didn't say anything particular — no, except that 
about the tinder-box — but it isn't what a man says, it's 
the way he says it. Moreover, he had a swarthy 
foreignness of complexion which boded little honesty. 

"Did he wear ear-rings?" Mr. Crackenthorp wished 
to know, having some acquaintance with foreign 
customs. 

*'Well — stay — let me see," said Mr. Snell, like a 
docile clairvoyante, who would really not make a mis- 



118 SILAS MARNER 

take if she could help it. After stretching the corners 
of his mouth and contracting his eyes, as if he were 
trying to see the ear-rings, he appeared to give up the 
effort, and said, "Well, he'd got ear-rings in his box to 
sell, so it's nat'ral to suppose he might wear 'em. But 
he called at every house, a'most, in the village; there's 
somebody else, mayhap, saw 'em in his ears, though I 
€an't take upon me rightly to say." 

Mr. Snell was correct in his surmise, that somebody 
■else would remember the pedlar's ear-rings. For on the 
spread of inquiry among the villagers it was stated, with 
gathering emphasis, that the parson had wanted to 
know whether the pedlar wore ear-rings in his ears, and 
an impression was created that a great deal depended on 
the eliciting of this fact. Of course, every one who 
heard the question, not having any distinct image of the 
pedlar as without ear-rings, immediately had an image 
of him with ear-rings, larger or smaller, as the case 
might be; and the image was presently taken for a 
vivid recollection, so that the glazier's wife, a well- 
intentioned woman, not given to lying, and whose house 
was among the cleanest in the village, was ready to 
declare, as sure as ever she meant to take the sacrament 
the veiy next Christmas that was ever coming, that she 
had seen big ear-rings, in the shape of the young moon, 
in the pedlar's two ears ; while Jinny Gates, the cobbler's 
daughter, being a more imaginative person, stated not 
only that she had seen them too, but that they had 
made her blood creep, as it did at that very moment 
while there she stood. 

Also, by way of throwing further light on this clue of 
the tinder-box, a collection was made of all the articles 



SILAS MARKER 119 

purchased from the pedlar at various houses, and carried 
to the Rainhow to be exhibited there. In fact, there 
was a general feeling in the village, that for the clear- 
ing-up of this robbery there must be a great deal done 
at the Rainbow, and that no man need offer his wife an 
excuse for going there while it was the scene of severe 
public duties. 

Some disappointment was felt, and perhaps a little 
indignation also, when it became known that Silas 
Marner, on being questioned by the Squire and the 
parson, had retained no other recollection of the pedlar 
than that he called at his door, but had not entered his 
house, having turned away at once when Silas, holding 
the door ajar, had said that he wanted nothing. This 
had been Silas's testimony, though he clutched strongly 
at the idea of the pedlar's being the culprit, if only 
because it gave him a definite image of a whereabout for 
his gold after it had been taken away from its hiding 
place: he could see it now in the pedlar's box. But it 
was observed with some irritation in the village, that 
anybody but a "blind creatur" like Marner would have 
seen the man prowling about, for how came he to leave 
his tinder-box in the ditch close by, if he hadn't been 
lingering there? Doubtless, he had made his observa- 
tions when he saw Marner at the door. Anybody might 
know — and only look at him — that the weaver was a 
half -crazy miser. It was a wonder the pedlar hadn't 
murdered him; men of that sort, with rings in their 
ears, had been known for murderers often and often; 
there had been one tried at the 'sizes, not so long ago 
but what there were people living who remembered it. 

Godfrey Oass, indeed, entering the Rainbow during 



120 SILAS MARNER 

one of Mr. Snell's frequently repeated recitals of his 
testimony, had treated it lightly, stating that he him- 
self had bought a pen-knife of the pedlar, and thought 
him a merry grinning fellow enough; it was all non- 
sense, he said, about the man's evil looks. But this 
was spoken of in the village as the random talk of 
youth, "as if it was only Mr. Snell who had seen some- 
thing odd about the pedlar!" On the contrary, there 
were at least half-a-dozen who were ready to go before 
Justice Malam, and give in much more striking testi- 
mony than any the landlord could furnish. It was to 
be hoped Mr. Godfrey would not go to Tarley and 
throw cold water on what Mr. Snell said there, and so 
prevent the justice from drawing up a warrant. He 
was suspected of intending this, when, after mid-day, 
he was seen setting off on horseback in the direction of 
Tarley. 

But by this time Godfrey's interest in the robbery had 
faded before his growing anxiety about Dunstan and 
Wildfire, and he was going, not to Tarley, but to Bath- 
erley, unable to rest in uncertainty about them any 
longer. The possibility that Dunstan had played him 
the ugly trick of riding away with Wildfire, to return at 
the end of a month, when he had gambled away or other- 
wise squandered the price of the horse, was a fear that 
urged itself upon him more, even, than the thought of an 
accidental injury; and now that the dance at Mrs. Os- 
good's was past, he was irritated with himself that he 
had trusted his horse to Dunstan. Instead of trying to 
still his fears he encouraged them, with that superstitious 
impression which clings to us all, that if we expect evil 
very strongly it is the less likely to come ; and when he 



SILAS MARNER 121 

heai'd a horse approaching at a trot, and saw a hat rising 
above a hedge beyond an angle of the lane, he felt as if 
his conjuration had succeeded. But no sooner did the 
horse come within sight, than his heart sank again. 
It was not Wildfii'e; and in a few moments more he dis- 
cerned that the rider was not Dunstan, but Bryce, who 
pulled up to speak, with a face that implied something 
disagreeable. 

*'Well, Mr. Godfrey, that's a lucky brother of yours, 
that Master Dunsey, isn't he?" 

"What do you mean?" said Godfrey, hastily. 

'*Why, hasn't he been home yet?" said Bryce. 

*'Home? no. What has happened? Be quick. What 
has he done ^vith my horse?" 

"Ah, I thought it was yours, though he pretended 
you had parted with it to him." 

"Has he thrown him down and broken his knees?" 
said Godfrey, flushed with exasperation. 

"Worse than that," said Bryce. "You see, I'd made 
a bargain with him to buy the horse for a hundred and 
twenty — a swinging price, ^ but I always liked the horse. 
And what does he do but go and stake him — fly at a 
hedge with stakes in it, atop of a bank with a ditch 
before it. The horse had been dead a pretty good while 
when he was found. So he hasn't been home since, has 
he?" 

"Home? no," said Godfrey, "and he'd better keep 
away. Confound me for a fool ! I might have known 
this would be the end of it. ' ' 

"Well, to tell you the truth," said Bryce, "after I'd 
bargained for the horse, it did come into my head that 

^ A good round sum. 



122 SILAS MAENER 

he might be riding and selling the horse without your 
knowledge, for I didn't believe it was his own. I knew 
Master Dunsey was up to his tricks sometimes. But 
where can he be gone? He's never been seen at Bath- 
er ley. He couldn't have been hurt, for he must have 
walked off." 

*'Hurt?" said Godfrey, bitterly. * 'He'll never be 
hurt — he's made to hurt other people." 

**And so you did give him leave to sell the horse, 
eh?" said Bryce. 

"Yes; I wanted to part with the horse — he was 
always a little too hard in the mouth for me," said God- 
frey ; his pride making him wince under the idea that 
Bryce guessed the sale to be a matter of necessity. *'I 
was going to see after him — I thought some mischief 
had happened. I'll go back now," he added, turning 
the horse's head, and wishing he could get rid of Bryce; 
for he felt that the long-dreaded crisis of his life was 
close upon him. "You're coming on to Eaveloe, aren't 
you?" 

"Well, no, not now," said Bryce. "I was coming 
round there, for I had to go to Flitton, and I thought I 
might as well take you in my way, and just let you 
know all I knew myself about the horse. I suppose 
Master Dunsey didn't like to show himself till the ill 
news had blown over a bit. He's perhaps gone to pay a 
visit at the Three Crowns, by Whitbridge — I know he's 
fond of the house." 

"Perhaps he is," said Godfrey, rather absently. 
Then rousing himself, he said, with an effort at careless- 
ness, "We shall hear of him soon enough, I'll be 
bound." 



SILAS MARNER 123 



Cf 



"Well, here's my turning," said Bryce, not sur- 
prised to perceive that Godfrey was rather "down;" "so- 
I'll bid you good-day, and wish I may bring you better 
news another time." 

Godfrey rode along slowly, representing to himself the 
scene of confession to his father from which he felt that 
there was now no longer any escape. The revelation 
about the money must be made the very next morning ; 
and if he withheld the rest, Dunstan would be sure to 
come back shortly, and, finding that he must bear the 
brunt of his father's anger, would tell the whole story 
out of spite, even though he had nothing to gain by it. 
There was one step, perhaps, by which he might still win 
Dunstan 's silence and put off the evil day: he might 
tell his father that he had himself spent the money paid 
to him by Fowler ; and as he had never been guilty of 
such an offence before, the affair would blow over after 
a little storming. But Godfrey could not bend himself 
to this. He felt that in letting Dunstan have the 
money, he had already been guilty of a breach of trust 
hardly less culpable than that of spending the money 
directly for his own behoof ; and yet there was a dis- 
tinction between the two acts which made him feel that 
the one was so much more blackening than the other as 
to be intolerable to him, 

"I don't pretend to be a good fellow," he said to 
himself; "but I'm not a scoundrel — at least, I'll stop 
short somewhere. I'll bear the consequences of what I 
have done sooner than make believe I've done what I 
never would have done. I'd never have spent the money 
for my own pleasure — I was tortured into it." 

Tlnrough the remainder of this day G odf rey, with only 



124 SILAS MARNER 

occasional fluctuations, kept liis will bent in the direc- 
tion of a complete avowal to his father, and he withheld 
the story of Wildfire's loss till the next morning, that it 
might serve him as an introduction to heavier matter. 
The old Squire was accustomed to his son's frequent 
absence from home, and thought neither Dunstan's nor 
Wildfire's non-appearance a matter calling for remark. 
Godfrey said to himself again and again, that if he let 
slip this one opportunity of confession, he might never 
have another ; the revelation might be made even in a 
more odious way than by Dunstan's malignity: she 
might come as she had threatened to do. And then he 
tried to make the scene easier to himself by rehearsal : 
he made up his mind how he would pass from the admis- 
sion of his weakness in letting Dunstan have the money 
to the fact that Dunstan had a hold on him which he 
had been unable to shake off, and how he would work 
up his father to expect something very bad before he 
told him the fact. The old Squire was an implacable 
man : he made resolutions in violent anger, and he was 
not to be moved from them after his anger had subsided 
— as fiery volcanic matters cool and harden into rock. 
Like many violent and implacable men, he allowed evils 
to grow under favour of his own heedlessness, till they 
pressed upon him with exasperating force, and then he 
turned round with fierce severity and became unrelent- 
ingly hard. This was his system with his tenants : he 
allowed them to get into arrears, neglect their fences, 
reduce their stock, sell their straw, and otherwise go the 
wrong way — and then, when he became short of money 
in consequence of this indulgence, he took the 
hardest measures and would listen to no appeal. God- 



SILAS MARNER 125 

frey knew all this, and felt it with the greater force 
because he had constantly suffered annoyance from wit- 
nessing his father's sudden fits of unrelentingness, 
for which his own habitual irresolution deprived him 
of all sympathy. (He was not critical on the faulty 
indulgence which preceded these fits; that seemed 
to him natural enough.) Still there was just 
the chance, Godfrey thought, that his father's pride 
might see this marriage in a light that would induce 
him to hush it up, rather than turn his son out and 
make the family the talk of the country for ten miles 
round . 

This was the view of the case that Godfrey managed 
to keep before him pretty closely till midnight, and he 
went to sleep thinking that he had done with inward 
debating. But when he awoke in the still morning 
darkness he found it impossible to reawaken his evening 
thoughts ; it was as if they had been tired out and were 
not to be roused to further work. Instead of argu- 
ments for confession, he could now feel the presence of 
nothing but its evil consequences : the old dread of dis- 
grace came back — the old shrinking from the thought 
of raising a hopeless barrier between himself and Nancy 
— the old disposition to rely on chances which might be 
favourable to him, and save him from betrayal. Why, 
after all, should he cut off the hope of them by his own 
act? He had seen the matter in a wrong light yester- 
day. He had been in a rage with Dunstan, and had 
thought of nothing but a thorough break-up of their 
mutual understanding; but what it would be really 
wisest for him to do, was to try and soften his father's 
anger against Dunsey, and keep things as nearly as pos- 



126 SILAS MARNER 

sible in their old condition. If Dunsey did not come 
back for a few days (and Godfrey did not know but that 
the rascal had enough money in his pocket to enable 
him to keep away still longer), everything might blow 
over. 



CHAPTER IX 

Godfrey rose and took his own breakfast earlier than 
usual, but lingered in the wainscoted parlour till his 
younger brothers had finished their meal and gone out ; 
awaiting his father, who always took a walk with his 
managing-man before breakfast. Every one breakfasted 
at a different hour in the Eed House, and the Squu*© 
was always the latest, giving a long chance to a rather 
feeble morning appetite before he tried it. The table 
had been spread with substantial eatables nearly two 
hours before he presented himself — a tall, stout man of 
sixty, with a face in which the knit brow and rather hard 
glance seemed contradicted by the slack and feeble 
mouth. His person showed marks of habitual neglect, 
his dress was slovenly ; and yet there was something in 
the presence of the old Squire distinguishable from that 
of the ordinary farmers in the parish, who were perhaps 
every whit as refined as he, but, having slouched their 
way through life with a consciousness of being in the 
vicinity of their * 'betters," wanted that self-possession 
and authoritativeness of voice and carriage which 
belonged to a man who thought of superiors as remote 
existences with whom he had personally little more to 
do than with America or the stars. The Squire had 
been used to parish homage all his life, used to the pre- 
supposition that his family, his tankards, and every- 
thing that was his, were the oldest and best; and as he 

137 



128 SILAS MARNER 

never associated with any gentry higher than himself, 
his opinion was not disturbed by comparison. 

He glanced at his son as he entered the room, and 
said, "What, sir! haven't you had your breakfast yet?" 
but there was no pleasant morning greeting between 
them; not because of any unfriendliness, but because 
the sweet flower of courtesy is not a growth of such 
homes as the Red House. 

"Yes, sir," said Godfrey, "I've had my breakfast, 
but I was waiting to speak to you." 

"Ah! well," said the Squire, tlirowing himself indif- 
ferently into his chair, and speaking in a ponderous 
coughing fashion, which was felt in Raveloe to be a sort 
of privilege of his rank, while he cut a piece of beef, 
and held it up before the deer-hound that had come in 
with him. "Ring the bell for my ale, will you? You 
youngsters' business is your own pleasure, mostly. 
There's no hurry about it for anybody but yourselves." 

The Squire's life was quite as idle as his sons', but it 
was a fiction kept up by himself and his contemporaries 
in Raveloe that youth was exclusively the period of 
folly, and that their aged wisdom was constantly in a 
state of endurance mitigated by sarcasm. Godfrey 
waited, before he spoke again, until the ale had been 
brought and the door closed — an interval during which 
Fleet, the deer-hound, had consumed enough bits of 
beef to make a poor man's holiday dinner. 

"There's been a cursed piece of ill-luck with Wild- 
fire," he began; "happened the day before yesterday." 

"What! broke his knees?" said the Squire, after tak- 
ing a draught of ale. "I thought you knew how to ride 
better than that, sir. I never threw a horse down in 



SILAS MARNER 129 

my life. If I had, I might ha' whistled for another, for 
my father wasn't quite so ready to unstring ^ as some 
other fathers I know of. But they must turn over 
a new leaf — they must. AVhat with mortgages and 
arrears, I'm as short o' cash as a roadside pauper. And 
that fool Kimble says the newspaper's talking about 
peace. Why, the country wouldn't have a leg to stand 
on. Prices 'ud run down like a jack, and I should 
never get my arrears, not if I sold all the fellows up. 
And there's that damned Fowler, I won't put up with 
him any longer; I've told Winthrop to go to Cox this 
very day. The lying scoundrel told me he'd be sure to 
pay me a hundred last month. He takes advantage 
because he's on that outlying farm, and thinks I shall 
forget him." 

The Squire had delivered this speech in a coughing 
and interrupted manner, but with no pause long enough 
for Godfrey to make it a pretext for taking up the word 
again. He felt that his father meant to ward off any 
request for money on the ground of the misfortune with 
Wildfire, and that the emphasis he had thus been led to 
lay on his shortness of cash and his arrears was likely to 
produce an attitude of mind the utmost unfavourable 
for his own disclosure. But he must go on, now he had 
begun. 

**It's worse than breaking the horse's knees — he's 
been staked and killed," he said, as soon as his father 
was silent, and had begun to cut his meat. "But I 
wasn't thinking of asking you to buy me another horse; 

^ So ready to untie the strings of his purse. In medieval 
times the purse was a sort of bag carried hanging from the 
girdle. 



130 SILAS MARNER 

I was only thinking I'd lost the means of paying you 
with the price of Wildfire, as I'd meant to do. Dunsey 
took him to the hunt to sell him for me the other day, 
and after he'd made a bargain for a hundred and twenty 
with Bryce, he went after the hounds, and took some 
fool's leap or other that did for the horse at once. If 
it hadn't been for that, I should have paid you a hun- 
dred pounds this morning." 

rhe Squire had laid down his knife and fork, and 
was staring at his son in amazement, not being suffi- 
ciently quick of brain to form a probable guess as to what 
could have caused so strange an inversion of the paternal 
and filial relations as this proposition of his son to pay 
him a hundred pounds. 

"The truth is, sir — I'm very sorry — I was quite to 
blame," said Godfrey. *' Fowler did pay that hundred 
pounds. He joaid it to me, when I was over there one 
day last month. And Dunsey bothered me for the 
money, and I let him have it, because I hoped I should 
be able to pay it you before this." 

The Squire was purple with anger before his son had 
done speaking, and found utterance difficult. *'You 
let Dunsey have it, sir? And how long have you been 
80 thick with Dunsey that you must collogue ^ with him 
to embezzle my money? Are you turning out a scamp? 
I tell you I won't have it. I'll turn the whole pack of 
you out of the house together, and marry again. I'd 
have you to remember, sir, my property's got no entail^ 

* Conspire or plot. 

2 An estate was entailed when the law limited the inherit- 
ance to a particular class of heirs, aSy for example, the eldest 
sons. 



SILAS MARNER 131 

on it; — since my grandfather's time the Casses can do as 
they like with their land. Remember that, sir. Let 
Dunsey have the money ! Why should you let Dunsey 
have the money? There's some lie at the bottom of it." 

* 'There's no lie, sir," said Godfrey. "I wouldn't 
have spent the money myself, but Dunsey bothered me, 
and I was a fool, and let him have it. But I meant to 
pay it, whether he did or not. That's the whole story. 
I never meant to embezzle money, and I'm not the 
man to do it. You never knew me do a dishonest 
trick, sir." 

"Where's Dunsey, then? What do you stand talking 
there for? Go and fetch Dunsey, as I tell you, and let 
him give account of what he wanted the money for, and 
what he's done with it. He shall repent. I'll turn 
him out. I said I would, and I'll do it. He shan't 
brave me. Go and fetch him." 

"Dunsey isn't come back, sir." 

"What! did he break his own neck, then?" said the 
Squire, with some disgust at the idea that, in that case, 
he could not fulfill his threat. 

"No, he wasn't hurt, I believe, for the horse was 
found dead, and Dunsey must have walked off. I dare- 
say we shall see him again by-and-by. I don't know 
where he is." 

"And what must you be letting him have my money 
for? Answer me that," said the Squire, attacking God- 
frey again, since Dunsey was not within reach. 

"Well, sir, I don't know," said Godfrey, hesitatingly. 
That was a feeble evasion, but Godfrey was not fond of 
lying, and, not being sufficiently aware that no sort of 
duplicity can long flourish without the help of vocal 



132 SILAS MARKER 

falsehoods, he was quite unprepared with invented 
motives. 

"You don't know? I tell you what it is, sir. You've 
been up to some trick, and you've been bribing him not 
to tell, ' ' said the Squire, with a sudden acuteness which 
startled Godfrey, who felt his heart beat violently at the 
nearness of his father's guess. The sudden alarm 
pushed him on to take the next step — a very slight 
impulse suffices for that on a downward road. 

"Why, sir," he said, trying to speak with careless 
ease, "it was a little affair between me and Dunsey; it's 
no matter to anybody else. It's hardly worth while to 
pry into young men's fooleries: it wouldn't have made 
any difference to you, sir, if I'd not had the bad luck to 
lose Wildfire. I should have paid you the money." 

"Fooleries! Pshaw! it's time you'd done with fool- 
eries. And I'd have you know, sir, you must ha' done 
with 'em," said the Squire, frowning and casting an 
angry glance at his son. "Your goings-on are not what 
I shall find money for any longer. There's my grand- 
father had his stables full o' horses, and kept a good 
house, too, and in worse times, by what I can make 
out ; and so might I, if I hadn't four good-for-nothing 
fellows to hang on me like horse -leeches. I've been too 
good a father to you all — that's what it is. But I shall 
pull up, sir." 

Godfrey was silent. He was not likely to be very pene- 
trating in his judgments, but he had always had a sense 
that his father's indulgence had not been kindness, and 
had had a vague longing for some discipline that would 
have checked his own errant weakness and helped his 
better will. The Squire ate his bread and meat hastily, 



SILAS MARNER 13^ 

took a deep draught of ale, then turned his chair from 
the table, and began to speak again. 

"It'll be all the worse for you, you know — ^you'd need 
try and help me keep things together." 

"Well, sir, I've often offered to take the manage- 
ment of things, but you know you've taken it ill always,. 
and seemed to think I wanted to push you out of your, 
place." 

"I know nothing o' your offering or o' my taking it 
ill," said the Squire, whose memory consisted in certain 
strong impressions unmodified by detail; "but I know, 
one while you seemed to be thinking o' marrying, and I 
didn't offer to put any obstacles in your way, as some 
fathers would. I'd as lieve you married Lammeter's 
daughter as anybody. I suppose, if I'd said you nay, 
you'd ha' kept on with it; but, for want o' contradic- 
tion, you've changed your mind. You're a shilly-shally 
fellow:^ you take after your poor mother. She never 
had a will of her own ; a woman has no call for one, if 
she's got a proper man for her husband. But your wife 
had need have one, for you hardly know your own mind 
enough to make both your legs walk one way. The lass 
hasn't said downright she won't have you, has she?" 

"No," said Godfrey, feeling very hot and uncomfort- 
able; "but I don't think she will." 

"Think! why haven't you the courage to ask her? 
Do you stick to it, you want to have lier — that's the 
thing?" 

"There's no other woman I want to marry," said 
Godfrey, evasively. 

^ An irresolute person. "Shall I? Shall I?" Continual ques- 
tioning, indicating indecision. 



134 SILAS MARNER 

*'Well, then, let me make the offer for you, that's all, 
if you haven't the pluck to do it yourself. Lammeter 
isn't likely to be loath for his daughter to marry into my 
family, I should think. And as for the pretty lass, she 
wouldn't have her cousin — and there's nobody else, as I 
see, could ha' stood in your way." 

"I'd rather let it be, please sir, at present," said God- 
frey in alarm. "I think she's a little offended with me 
just now, and I should like to speak for myself. A man 
must manage these things for himself." 

"Well, speak, then, and manage it, and see if you 
can't turn over a new leaf. That's what a man must 
do when he thinks o' marrying." 

"I don't see how I can think of it at present, sir. 
You wouldn't like to settle me on one of the farms, I 
suppose, and I don't think she'd come to live in this 
house with all my brothers. It's a different sort of life 
to what she's been used to." 

"Not come to live in this house? Don't tell me. 
You ask her, that's all," said the Squire, with a short, 
scornful laugh. 

"I'd rather let the thing be, at present, sir," said God- 
frey. "I hope you won't try to hurry it on by saying 
anything." 

"I shall do what I choose," said the Squire, "and I 
shall let you know I'm master ; else you may turn out, 
and find an estate to drop into somewhere else. Go out 
and tell Winthrop not to go to Cox's, but wait for me. 
And tell 'em to get my horse saddled. And stop : look 
out and get that hack o' Dunsey's sold, and hand me 
the money, will you? He'll keep no more hacks at my 
expense. And if you know where he's sneaking — I 



SILAS MARNER 135 

daresay you do — you may tell him to spare himself the 
journey o' coming back home. Let him turn ostler, and 
keep himself. He shan't hang on me any more." 

*'I don't know where he is; and if I did, it isn't my 
place to tell him to keep away," said Godfrey, moving 
towards the door. 

"Confound it, sir, don't stay arguing, but go and 
order my horse," said the Squire, taking up a pipe. 

Godfrey left the room, hardly knowing whether he 
were more relieved by the sense that the interview was 
ended without having made any change in his position, 
or more uneasy that he had entangled himself still 
further in prevarication and deceit. What had passed 
about his proposing to Nancy had raised a new alarm, 
lest by some after-dinner words of his father's to Mr. 
Lammeter he should be thrown into the embarrassment 
of being obliged absolutely to decline her when she 
seemed to be within his reach. He fled to his usual 
refuge, that of hoping for some unforeseen turn of 
fortune, some favorable chance which would save him 
from unpleasant consequences — perhaps even justify his 
insincerity by manifesting its prudence. 

In this point of trusting to some throw of fortune's 
dice, Godfrey can hardly be called old-fashioned. 
Favourable Chance is the god of all men who follow 
their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe 
in. Let even a polished man of these days get into a 
position he is ashamed to avow, and his mind will be 
bent on all the possible issues that may deliver him from 
the calculable results of that position. Let him live 
outside his income, or shirk the resolute honest work 
that brings wages, and he will presently find himself 



136 SILAS MARNER 

dreaming of a possible benefactor, a possible simpleton 
who may be cajoled into using his interest, a possible 
state of mind in some possible person not yet forthcom- 
ing. Let him neglect the responsibilities of his office, 
and he will inevitably anchor himself on the chance, 
that the thing left undone may turn out not to be of the 
supposed importance. Let him betray his friend's con- 
fidence, and he will adore that same cunning complexity 
called Chance, which gives him the hope that his friend 
will never know. Let him forsake a decent craft that 
he may pursue the gentilities of a profession to which 
nature never called him, and his religion will infallibly 
be the worship of blessed Chance, which he will believe 
in as the mighty creator of success. The evil principle 
deprecated in that religion, is the orderly sequence by 
which the seed brings forth a crop after its kind. 



CHAPTER X 

Justice Malam was naturally regarded in Tarley and 
Raveloe as a man of capacious mind, seeing that he 
could draw much wider conclusions without evidence 
than could be expected of his neighbours who were not 
on the Commission of the Peace. Such a man was not 
likely to neglect the clue of the tinder-box, and an 
inquiry was set on foot concerning a pedlar, name 
unknown, with curly black hair and a foreign complex- 
ion, carrying a box of cutlery and jewellery, and wearing 
large rings in his ears. But either because inquiry was 
too slow-footed to overtake him, or because the descrip- 
tion applied to so many pedlars that inquiry did not 
know how to choose among them, weeks passed away, 
and there was no other result concerning the robbery 
than a gradual cessation of the excitement it had caused 
in Raveloe. Dunstan Cass's absence was hardly a sub- 
ject of remark ; he had once before had a quarrel with 
his father, and had gone off, nobody knew whither, to 
return at the end of six weeks, take up his old quarters 
unforbidden and swagger as usual. His own family, 
who equally expected this issue, with the sole difference 
that the Squire was determined this time to forbid him 
the old quarters, never mentioned his absence; and when 
his uncle Kimble or Mr. Osgood noticed it, the story of 
his having killed Wildfire and committed some offence 
against his father was enough to prevent surprise. To 

137 



138 SILAS MARNER 

connect tlie fact of Dunsey's disappearance with that of 
the robbery occurring on the same day, lay quite away 
from the track of every one's thought — even Godfrey's, 
who had better reason than any one else to know what 
his brother was capable of. He remembered no mention 
of the weaver between them since the time, twelve years 
ago, when it was their boyish sport to deride him; and, 
besides, his imagination constantly created an alihi for 
Dunstan: he saw him continually in some congenial 
haunt, to which he had walked off on leaving Wildfire — 
saw him sponging on chance acquaintances, and medi- 
tating a return home to the old amusement of torment- 
ing his elder brother. Even if any brain in Raveloe had 
put the said two facts together, I doubt whether a com- 
bination so injurious to the prescriptive respectability of 
a family with a mural monument and venerable tank- 
ards, would not have been suppressed as of unsound 
tendency. But Christmas puddings, brawn, ^ and abun- 
dance of spirituous liquors, throwing the mental 
originality into the channel of nightmare, are great 
preservatives against a dangerous spontaneity of waking 
thought. 

When the robbery was talked of at the Rainbow and 
elsewhere, in good company, the balance continued to 
waver between the rational explanation founded on the 
tinder-box, and the theory of an impenetrable mystery 
that mocked investigation. The advocates of the tinder - 
box-and-pedlar view considered the other side a muddle- 
headed and credulous set, who, because they themselves 
were wall-eyed, supposed everybody else to have the 
same blank outlook ; and the ad herents of the inexpli- 

* The salted flesh of a boar. 



SILAS MARNER 139 

cable more than hinted that their antagonists were 
animals inclined to crow before they had found any corn 
— mere skimming- dishes in point of depth — whose clear- 
sightedness consisted in supposing there was nothing 
behind a barn-door because they couldn't see through it j 
so that, though their controversy did not serve to elicit 
the fact concerning the robbery, it elicited some true 
opinions of collateral importance. 

But while poor Silas's loss served thus to brush the 
slow current of Raveloe conversation, Silas himself was 
feeling the withering desolation of that bereavement 
about which his neighbours were arguing at their ease. 
To any one who had observed him before he lost his 
gold, it might have seemed that so withered and 
shrunken a life as his could hardly be susceptible of a 
bruise, could hardly endure any subtraction but such as 
would put an end to it altogether. But in reality it had 
been an eager life, filled with immediate purpose which 
fenced him in from the wide, cheerless unknown. It 
had been a clinging life; and though the object round 
which its fibres had clung was a dead disrupted thing, 
it satisfied the need for clinging. But now the fence 
was broken down — the support was snatched away.. 
Marner's thoughts could no longer move in their old 
round, and were baffled by a blank like that which 
meets a plodding ant when the earth has broken away 
on its homeward path. The loom was there, and the 
weaving, and the giowing pattern in the cloth ; but the 
bright treasure in the hole under his feet was gone ; the 
prospect of handling and counting was gone: the 
evening had no phantasm of delight to still the poor 
soul's craving. The thought of the money he would 



140 SILAS MARKER 

get by his actual work could bring no joy, for its meagre 
image was only a fresh reminder of his loss ; and hope 
was too heavily crushed by the sudden blow, for his 
imagination to dwell on the growth of a new hoard from 
that small beginning. 

He filled up the blank with grief. As he sat weaving, 
he every now and then moaned low, like one in pain: it 
was the sign that his thoughts had come round again to 
the sudden chasm — to the empty evening time. And 
all the evening, as he sat in his loneliness by his dull 
fire, he leaned his elbows on his knees, and clasped his 
head with his hands, and moaned very low — not as one 
who seeks to be heard. 

And yet he was not utterly forsaken in his trouble. 
The repulsion Marner had always created in his neigh- 
bours was partly dissipated by the new light in which 
this misfortune had shown him. Instead of a man who 
had more cunning than honest folks could come by, 
and, what was worse, had not the inclination to use that 
cunning in a neighbourly way, it was now apparent that 
Silas had not cunning enough to keep his own. He was 
generally spoken of as a "poor mushed creatur;" and 
that avoidance of his neighbours, which had before been 
referred to his ill-will and to a probable addiction to 
worse company, was now considered mere craziness. 

This change to a kindlier feeling was shown in various 
ways. The odour of Christmas cooking being on the 
wind, it was the season when superfluous pork and black 
puddings ^ are suggestive of charity in well-to-do families ; 
and Silas's misfortune had brought him uppermost in 
the memory of housekeepers like Mrs. Osgood. Mr. 

* Sausages made of blood and suet, and thickened ^vith meaL 



SILAS MARNER 141 

Crackenthorp, too, while he admonished Silas that his 
money had probably been taken from him because he 
thought too much of it and never came to church, 
enforced the doctrine by a present of pigs' pettitoes,^ 
well calculated to dissipate unfounded prejudices against 
the clerical character. Neighbours who had nothing 
but verbal consolation to give showed a disposition not 
only to greet Silas and discuss his misfortune at some 
length when they encountered him in the village,* but 
also to take the trouble of calling at his cottage and get- 
ting him to repeat all the details on the very spot ; and 
then they would try to cheer him by saying, *'Well, 
Master Marner, you're no worse off nor other poor folks, 
after all ; and if you was to be crippled, the parish 'ud 
give you a 'lowance." 

I suppose one reason why we are seldom able to com- 
fort our neighbours with our words is that our goodwill 
gets adulterated, in spite of ourselves, before it can pass 
our lips. We can send black puddings and pettitoes, 
without giving them a flavour of our own egoism ; but 
language is a stream that is almost sure to smack of a 
mingled soil. There was a fair proportion of kindness 
in Raveloe ; but it was often of a beery and bungling 
sort, and took the shape least allied to the complimen- 
tary and hypocritical. 

Mr. Macey, for example, coming one evening expressly 
to let Silas know that recent events had given him the 
advantage of standing more favourably in the opinion of 
a man whose judgment was not formed lightly, opened 
the conversation by saying, as soon as he had seated 
himself and adjusted his thumbs — 

^ Pigs' feet. 



142 SILAS MARNER 

**Come, Master Marner, why, you've no call to sit a- 
moaning. You're a deal better off to ha' lost your 
money, nor to ha' kep it by foul means. I used to 
think, when you first come into these parts, as you were 
no better nor you should be ; you were younger a deal 
than what yon are now; but you were allays a staring, 
white-faced creatur, partly like a bald-faced calf, as I 
may say. But there's no knowing: it isn't every queer- 
looksed thing as Old Harry's had the making of — I mean, 
speaking o' toads and such; for they're often harmless, 
and useful against varmin. And it's pretty much the 
same wi' you, as fur as I can see. Though as to the 
yarbs and stuff to cure the breathing, if you brought 
that sort o' knowledge from distant parts, you might ha' 
been a bit freer of it. And if the knowledge wasn't 
well come by, why, you might ha' made up for it by 
coming to church reg'lar ; for as for the children as the 
Wise Woman charmed, I've been at the christening of 
'em again and again, and they took the water just as 
well. And that's reasonable; for if Old Harry's a mind 
to do a bit o' kindness for a holiday, like, who's got any- 
thing against it? That's my thinking; and I've been 
clerk o' this parish forty year, and I know, when the 
parson and me does the cussing of a Ash Wednesday, 
there's no cussing o' folks as have a mind to be cured 
without a doctor, let Kimble say what he will. And so. 
Master Marner, as I was saying — for there's windings i' 
things as they may carry you to the fur end o' the 
prayer-book afore you get back to 'em — my advice is, as 
you keep up your eperrits ; for as for thinking you're a 
deep un, and ha' got more inside you nor 'ull bear day- 
light, I'm not o' that opinion at all, and so I tell the 



SILAS MARNER 145 

neighbours. For, says I, you talk o' Master Marner 
making out a tale — why, it's nonsense, that is : it 'ud 
take a cute man to make a tale like that ; and, says I, 
he looked as scared as a rabbit. " 

During this discursive address ^ Silas had continued 
motionless in his previous attitude, leaning his elbows on 
his knees, and pressing his hands against his head. 
Mr. Macey, not doubting that he had been listened to, 
paused, in the expectation of some appreciatory reply, 
but Marner remained silent. He had a sense that the 
old man meant to be good-natured and neighbourly; 
but the kindness fell on him as sunshine falls on the 
wretched — he had no heart to taste it, and felt that it 
was very far off him. 

*'Come, Master Marner, have you got nothing to say 
to that?" said Mr. Macey at last, with a slight accent of 
impatience. 

**0h," said Marner, slowly, shaking his head between 
his hands, "I thank you — thank you — kindly.'* 

**Ay, ay, to be sure: I thought you would," said Mr. 
Macey; **and my advice is — have you got a Sunday 
suit?" 

**No," said Marner. 

**I doubted it was so," said Mr. Macey. *'Now, let 
me advise you to get a Sunday suit: there's Tookey, 
he's a poor creatur, but he's got my tailoring business, 
and some o' my money in it, and he shall make a suit 
at a low price, and give you trust, and then you can 
come to church, and be a bit neighbourly. Why, you've 
never beared me say *Amen' since you come into these 

* Compare this scene with that between Job and his consola- 
tory friends. 



144 SILAS MARNER 

parts, and I recommend you to lose no time, for it'll be 
poor work when Tookey has it all to himself, for I 
mayn't be equil to stand i' the desk at all, come another 
winter." Here Mr. Macey paused, perhaps expecting 
some sign of emotion in his hearer ; but not observing 
any, he went on. "And as for the money for the suit 
o' clothes, why, you get a matter of a pound a- week at 
your weaving. Master Marner, and you're a young man, 
,eh, for all you look so mushed. Why, you couldn't ha' 
been five-and -twenty when you come into these parts, 
eh?" 

Silas started a little at the change to a questioning 
tone, and answered mildly, "I don't know; I can't 
rightly say — it's a long while since." 

After receiving such an answer as this, it is not sur- 
prising that Mr. Macey observed, later on in the even- 
ing at the Kainbow, that Marner 's head was ''all of a 
muddle," and that it was to be doubted if he ever knew 
when Sunday came round, which showed him a worse 
heathen than many a dog. 

Another of Silas's comforters, besides Mr. Macey, 
came to him with a mind highly charged on the same 
topic. This was Mrs. Winthrop, the wheelwright's 
wife. The inhabitants of Raveloe were not severely 
regular in their church-going, and perhaps there was 
hardly a person in the parish who would not have held 
that to go to church every Sunday in the calendar would 
have shown a greedy desire to stand well with Heaven, 
and get an undue advantage over their neighbours — a 
wish to be better than the "common run," that would 
have implied a reflection on those who had had god- 
fathers and godmothers as well as themselves, and had 



SILAS MARNER 145 

an equal right to the biirying-service. At the same 
time, it was understood to be requisite for all who were 
not household servants, or young men, to take the sacra- 
ment at one of the great festivals : Squire Cass himself 
took it on Christmas -day ; while those who were held to 
be '* good-livers" went to church with greater, though 
still with moderate, frequency. 

Mrs. Winthrop was one of these : she was in all re- 
spects a woman of scrupulous conscience, so eager for 
duties that life seemed to offer them too scantily unless 
she rose afc half -past four, though this threw a scarcity 
of work over the more advanced hours of the morning, 
which it was a constant problem with her to remove. 
Yet she had not the vixenish temper which is sometimes 
supposed to be a necessary condition of such habits : she 
was a very mild, patient woman, whose nature it was to 
seek out all the sadder and more serious elements of life, 
and pasture her mind upon them. She was the person 
always first thought of in Eaveloe when there was illness 
or death in the family, when leeches were to be applied, 
or there was a sudden disappointment in a monthly 
nurse. She was a "comfortable woman" — good-look- 
ing, fresh-complexioned, having her lips always slightly 
screwed, as if she felt herself in a sick-room with a 
doctor or the clergyman present. But she was never 
whimpering; no one had seen her shed tears; she was 
simply grave and inclined to shake her head and sigh, 
almost imperceptibly, like a funereal mourner who is 
not a relation. It seemed surprising that Ben Win- 
throp, who loved his quart-pot and his joke, got along 
so well with Dolly; but she took her husband's jokes 
and joviality as patiently as everything else, considering 



146 SILAS MARNER 

that *'men ivould be so," and viewing the stronger sex 
in the light of animals whom it had pleased Heaven to 
make naturally troublesome, like bulls and turkey- 
cocks. 

This good wholesome woman could hardly fail to have 
her mind drawn strongly towards Silas Marner, now 
that he appeared in the light of a sufferer; and one 
Sunday afternoon she took her little boy Aaron with her, 
and went to call on Silas, carrying in her hand some 
small lard-cakes, flat paste-like articles much esteemed in 
Eaveloe. Aaron, an apple- cheeked youngster of seven, 
with a clean starched frill which looked like a plate for 
the apples, needed all his adventurous curiosity to 
embolden him against the possibility that the big-eyed 
weaver might do him some bodily injury; and his 
dubiety was much increased when, on arriving at the 
Stone-pits, they heard the mysterious sound of the 
loom. 

''Ah, it is as I thought,'* said Mrs. Winthrop, 
sadly. 

They had to knock loudly before Silas heard them ; 
but when he did come to the door he showed no impa- 
tience, as he would once have done, at a visit that had 
been unasked for and unexpected. Formerly, his heart 
had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside ; but 
now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. 
Left groping in darkness, with his prop utterly gone, 
Silas had inevitably a sense, though a dull and half -de- 
spairing one, that if any help came to him it must come 
from without ; and there was a slight stirring of expecta- 
tion at the sight of his fellow- men, a faint consciousness 
of dependence on their goodwill. He opened the door 



SILAS MARNER 147 

wide to admit Dolly, but without otherwise returning her 
greeting than by moving the arm-chair a few inches as a 
sign that she was to sit down in it. Dolly, as soon as 
she was seated, removed the white cloth that covered her 
lard-cakes, and said in her gi-avest way — 

"I'd a baking yisterday. Master Marner, and the lard- 
cakes turned out better nor common, and I'd ha' asked 
you to accept some, if you'd thouglit well. I don't eat 
such things myself, for a bit o' bread's what I like from 
one year's end to the other; but men's stomichs ard 
made so comical, they want a change — they do, I know, 
God help 'em." 

Dolly sighed gently as she held out the cakes to Silas, 
who thanked her kindly and looked very close at them, 
absently, being accustomed to look so at everything he 
took into his hand — eyed all the while by the wondering 
bright orbs of the small Aaron, who had made an out- 
work of his mother's chair, and was peeping from 
behind it. 

"There's letters pricked on 'em," said Dolly. "I 
can't read 'em myself, and there's nobody, not Mr. 
Macey himself, rightly knows what they mean; but 
they've a good meaning, for they're the same as is on 
the pulpit-cloth at church. What are they, Aaron, my 
dear?" 

Aaron retreated completely behind his outwork. 

"Oh go, that's naughty," said his mother, mildly. 
"Well, whativer the letters are, they've a good meaning; 
and it's a stamp as has been in our house, Ben says, ever 
since he was a little un, and his mother used to put it 
on the cakes, and I've allays put it on too; for if there's 
any good, we've need of it i' this world." 



148 SILAS MARNER 

*'It's I. H. S.," ^ said Silas, at which proof of learning 
Aaron peeped round the chair again. 

"Well, to be snre, you can read 'em off," said Dolly. 
"Ben's read 'em to me many and many a time, but they 
slip out o' my mind again; the more's the pity, for 
they're good letters, else they wouldn't be in the church ; 
and so I prick 'em on all the loaves and all the cakes, 
though sometimes they won't hold, because o' the rising 
— for, as I said, if there's any good to be got we've need 
of it i' this world — that we have; and I hope they'll 
bring good to you, Master Marner, for it's wi' that will 
I brought you the cakes ; and you see the letters have 
held better nor common." 

Silas was as unable to interpret the letters as Dolly, but 
there was no possibility of misunderstanding the desire 
to give comfort that made itself heard in her quiet tones. 
He said, with more feeling than before — "Thank you — 
thank you kindly." But he laid down the cakes and 
seated himself absently — drearily unconscious of any 
distinct benefit towards which the cakes and the letters, 
or even Dolly's kindness, could tend for him. 

"Ah, if there's good anywhere, we've need of it," 
repeated Dolly, who did not lightly forsake a serviceable 
phrase. She looked at Silas pityingly as she went on. 
"But you didn't hear the church-bells this morning. 
Master Marner? I doubt you didn't know it was Sun- 
day. Living so lone here, you lose your count, I dare- 

^ The first three letters of the Greek word for Jesus. The 
letters are regarded as the symbols of Christianity, and are 
commonly but mistakenly supposed to stand either for Jesus 
Hominum Salvator or In hoc signo, the latter phrase being 
the legend under the miraculous cross seen by the Emperor 
Constantine. 



SILAS MARNER 149 

say; and then, when your loom makes a noise, you can't 
hear the bells, more partic'lar now the frost kills the 
sound." 

*'Yes, I did; I heard 'em," said Silas, to whom Sun- 
day bells were a mere accident of the day, and not part 
of its sacredness. There had been no bells in Lantern 
Yard. 

*'Dear heart!" said Dolly, pausing before she spoke 
again. "But what a pity it is you should work of a 
Sunday, and not clean yourself — if you didnH go to 
church; for if you'd a roasting bit, it might be as you 
couldn't leave it, being a lone man. But there's the 
bakehus, if you could make up your mind to spend a 
twopence on the oven now and then — not every week, in 
course — I shouldn't like to do that myself — ^you might 
carry your bit o' dinner there, for it's nothing but right 
to have a bit o' summat hot of a Sunday, and not to 
make it as you can't know your dinner from Saturday. 
But now, upo' Christmas -day, this blessed Christmas as 
is ever coming, if you was to take your dinner to the 
bakehus, and go to church, and see the holly and the 
yew, and hear the anthim, and then take the sacramen', 
you'd be a deal the better, and you'd know which end 
you stood on, and you could put your trust i' Them 
as knows better nor we do, seein' you'd ha' done what 
it lies on us all to do." 

Dolly's exhortation, which was an unusually long 
effort of speech for her, was uttered in the soothing per- 
suasive tone with which she would have tried to prevail 
on a sick man to take his medicine, or a basin of gruel 
for which he had no appetite. Silas had never before 
been closely urged on the point of his absence from 



150 SILAS MARNER 

church, which had only heen thought of as a part of his 
general queerness ; and he was too direct and simple to 
evade Dolly's appeal. 

*'Nay, nay," he said, **I know nothing o' church. 
I've never heen to church." 

"No!" said Dolly, in a low tone of wonderment. 
Then hethinking herself of Silas's advent from an 
unknown country, she said, '* Could it ha' been as 
they'd no church where you was born?" 

"Ohyes," said Silas, meditatively, sitting in his usual 
posture of leaning on his knees, and supporting his head. 
*' There was churches — a many — it was a big town. 
But I knew nothing of 'em — I went to chapel." ^ 

Dolly was much puzzled at this new word, but she 
was rather afraid of inquiring further, lest "chapel" 
might mean some haunt of wickedness. After a little 
thought, she said — 

"Well, Master Marner, it's niver too late to turn over 
a new leaf, and if you've niver had no church, there's 
no telling the good it'll do you. For I feels so set up 
and comfortable as niver was, when I've been and heard 
the prayers, and the singing to the praise and glory o' 
God, as Mr. Macey gives out — and Mr. Crackenthorp 
saying good words, and more partic'hir on Sacramen' 
Day; and if a bit o' trouble comes, I feel as I can put up 
wi' it, for I've looked for help i' the right quarter, and 
gev myself up to Them as we must all give ourselves up 
to at the last; and if we'n done our part, it is'nt to 

^ In England the main divisions among the Protestants are the 
Conformists, or Established church, and the Non- conformists, 
or Dissenters. The places of worship of the latter are called 
chapels, as distinguished from the churches of the former. 



SILAS MARNSR 151 

be believed as Them as are above us 'ull be worse nor we 
are, and come short o' Their'n." 

Poor Dolly's exposition of her simple Raveloe theology 
fell rather unmeaningly on Silas's ears, for there was no 
word in it that could rouse a memory of what he had 
known as religion, and his comprehension was quite 
baffled by the plural pronoun, which was no heresy of 
Dolly's, but only her way of avoiding a presumptuous 
familiarity. He remained silent, not feeling inclined to 
assent to the part of Dolly's speech which he fully under- 
stood — her recommendation that he should go to church. 
Indeed, Silas was so unaccustomed to talk beyond the 
brief questions and answers necessary for the transaction 
of his simple business, that words did not easily come to 
him without the urgency of a distinct purpose. 

But now, little Aaron, having become used to the weav- 
er's awful presence, had advanced to his mother's side, 
and Silas, seeming to notice him for the first time, tried 
to return Dolly's signs of goodwill by offering the lad a 
bit of lard-cake. Aaron shrank back a little, and rubbed 
his head against his mother's shoulder, but still thought 
the piece of cake worth the risk of putting his hand out 
for it. 

"Oh, for shame, Aaron," said his mother, taking him 
on her lap, however; "why, you don't want cake again 
yet awhile. He's Vv^onderful hearty," she went on, with 
a little sigh — "that he is, God knows. He's my young- 
est, and we spoil him sadly, for either me or the father 
must allays hev him in our sight — that we must." 

She stroked Aaron's brown head, and thought it must 
do Master Mai-ner good to see such a "pictur of a child. " 
But Marner, on the other side of the hearth, saw the 



152 SILAS MARNER 

neat -featured rosy face as a mere dim round, with two 
dark spots in it. 

**And he's got a voice like a bird — you wouldn't 
think," Dolly went on; "he can sing a Christmas carril 
as his father's taught him; and I take it for a token as 
he'll come to good, as he can learn the good tunes so 
quick. Come, Aaron, stan' up and sing the carril to 
Master Marner, come." 

Aaron replied by rubbing his forehead against his 
mother's shoulder. 

*'0h, that's naughty," said Dolly, gently. "Stan' 
up, when mother tells you, and let me hold the cake 
till you've done." 

Aaron was not indisposed to display his talents, even 
to an ogre, under protecting circumstances ; and after a 
few more signs of coyness, consisting chiefly in rubbing 
the backs of his hands over his eyes, and then peeping 
between them at Master Marner, to see if he looked 
anxious for the "carril," he at length allowed his head 
to be duly adjusted, and standing behind the table, 
which let him appear above it only as far as his broad 
frill, so that he looked like a cherubic head untroubled 
with a body, he began with a clear chirp, and in a 
melody that had the rhythm of an industrious hammer — 

'God rest you, merry gentlemen, 

Let nothing you dismay, 
For Jesus Christ our Saviour 

Was bom on Christmas-day." 

Dolly listened with a devout look, glancing at Marner 
in some confidence that this strain would help to allure 
him to church. 

"That's Christmas music," she said, when Aaron had 



SILAS MARNER 153 

ended, and had secured his piece of cake again. 
*' There's no other music equil to the Christmas music — 
* Hark the erol angils sing.' And you may judge what 
it is at church, Master Marner, with the bassoon and 
the voices, as you can't help thinking you've got to a 
better place a'ready — for I wouldn't speak ill o' this 
world, seeing as Them put us in it as knows best — but 
what wi' the drink, and the quarrelling, and the bad 
illnesses, and the hard dying, as I've seen times and 
times, one's thankful to hear of a better. The boy sings 
pretty, don't he. Master Marner?" 

*'Yes," said Silas, absently, **very pretty." 

The Christmas carol, with its hammer -like rhythm, had 
fallen on his ears as strange music, quite unlike a hymn, 
and could have none of the effect Dolly contemplated. 
But he wanted to show her that he was grateful, and the 
only mode that occurred to him was to offer Aaron a 
bit more cake. 

"Oh no, thank you. Master Marner," said Dolly, 
holding down Aaron's willing hands. "We must be 
going home now. And so I wish you good-bye. Master 
Marner ; and if you ever feel anyways bad in your inside, 
as you can't fend^ for yourself, I'll come and clean up 
for you, and get you a bit o' victual, and willing. But 
I beg and pray of you to leave off weaving of a Sunday, 
for it's bad for soul and body — and the money as comes 
i' that way 'ull be a bad bed to lie down on at the last, if 
it doesn't fly away, nobody knows where, like the white 
frost. And you'll excuse me being that free with you, 
Master Marner, for I wish you well — I do. Make your 
bow, Aai'on." 

^ Provide for. 



154 SILAS MARNER 

Silas said "Good-bye, and thank you kindly," as lie 
opened the door for Dolly, but he couldn't help feeling 
relieved when she was gone — relieved that lie might 
weave again and moan at his ease. Her simple view of 
life and its comforts, by which she had tried to cheer 
him, was only like a report of unknown objects, which 
his imagination could not fashion. The fountains of 
human love and of faith in a divine love had not yet 
been unlocked, and his soul was still the shrunken rivu- 
let, with only this difference, that its little groove of 
sand was blocked up, and it wandered confusedly against 
dark obstruction. 

And so, notwithstanding the honest persuasions of 
Mr. Macey and Dolly Winthrop, Silas spent his Christ- 
mas-day in loneliness, eating his meat in sadness of 
heart, though the meat had come to him as a neigh- 
bourly present. In the morning he looked out on the 
black frost that seemed to press cruelly on every blade of 
grass, while the half-icy red pool shivered under the 
bitter wind ; but towards evening the snov/ began to fall, 
and curtained from him even that dreary outlook, shut- 
ting him close up with his narrow grief. And he sat in 
his robbed home through the livelong evening, not car- 
ing to close his shutters or lock his door, pressing his 
head between his hands and moaning, till the cold 
grasped him and told him that his fire was grey. 

Nobody in this world but himself knew that he was the 
same Silas Marner who had once loved his fellow with 
tender love, and trusted in an unseen goodness. Even 
to himself that past experience had become dim. 

But in Raveloe village the bells rang merrily, and the 
church was fuller than all through the rest of the year, 



SILAS MARNER 155 

with red faces among the abundant dark-gi'een boughs 
— faces prepaied for a longer service than usual by an 
odorous breakfast of toast and ale. Those green boughs, 
the hymn and anthem never heard but at Christmas — 
even the Athanasian Creed, which was discriminated 
from the others only as being longer and of exceptional 
virtue, since it was only read on rare occasions — brought 
a vague exulting sense, for which the grown men could 
as little have found words as the children, that some- 
thing great and mysterious liad been done for them in 
heaven above and in earth below, which they were appro- 
priating by their presence. And then the red faces 
made their way through the black biting frost to their 
own homes, feeling themselves free for the rest of the 
day to eat, di'ink, and be merry, and using that 
Christian freedom without diffidence. 

At Squire Cass's family party that day nobody men- 
tioned Dunstan — nobody was sorry for his absence, or 
feared it would be too long. The doctor and his wife, 
uncle and aunt Kimble, were there, and the annual 
Christmas talk was carried tlu-ough without any omis- 
sions, rising to the climax of Mr. Kimble's experience 
when he walked the London hospitals thirty years back, 
together with striking professional anecdotes then 
gathered. Whereupon cards followed, with aunt 
Kimble's annual failure to follow L-uit, and uncle 
Kimble's irascibility concerning the odd trick which 
was rarely explicable to him, when it was not on his 
side, without a general visitation of tricks to see that 
they were formed on sound principles : the whole being 
accompanied by a strong steaming odour of spirits-and- 
water. 



156 SILAS MARNER 

But the party on Christmas-day, being a strictly 
family party, was not the pre-eminently brilliant cele- 
bration of the season at the Red House. It was the 
great dance on New Year's Eve that made the glory of 
Squire Cass's hospitality, as of his forefathers', time out 
of mind. This was the occasion when all the society of 
Eaveloe and Tarley, whether old acquaintances sepa- 
rated by long rutty distances, or cooled acquaintances 
separated by misunderstandings concerning runaway 
calves, or acquaintances founded on intermittent conde- 
scension, counted on meeting and on comporting them- 
selves with mutual appropriateness. This was the occasion 
on which fair dames who came on pillions sent their band- 
boxes before them, supplied with more than their even- 
ing costume ; for the feast was not to end with a single 
evening, like a paltry town entertainment, where the 
whole supply of eatables is put on the table at once, and 
bedding is scanty. The Red House was provisioned as 
if for a siege; and as for the spare feather-beds ready to 
be laid on floors, they were as plentiful as might natur- 
ally be expected in a family that had killed its own geese 
for many generations. 

Godfrey Cass was looking forward to this New Year's 
Eve with a foolish reckless longing, that made him half 
deaf to his importunate companion. Anxiety. 

"Dunsey will be coming home soon: there will be a 
great blow-up, and how will you bribe his spite to 
silence?" said Anxiety. 

"Oh, he won't come home before New Year's Eve, 
perhaps," said Godfrey; "and I shall sit by Nancy 
then, and dance with her, and get a kind look from her 
in spite of herself." 



SILAS MARNER 157 

*'But money is wanted in anothei' quarter," said 
Anxiety in a louder voice, ''and how will you get it 
without selling your mother's diamond pin? And if you 
don't get it . . . ?" 

*'Well, but something may happen to make things 
easier. At any rate, there's one pleasure for me close 
at hand: Nancy is coming." 

*'Yes, and suppose your father should bring matters 
to a pass that will oblige you to decline marrying her — 
and to give your reasons?" 

*'Hold your tongue, and don't worry me. I can see 
Nancy's eyes, just as they will look at me, and feel her 
hand in mine already." 

But Anxiety went on, though in noisy Christmas 
company ; refusing to be utterly quieted even by much 
drinking. 



CHAPTER XI 

Some women, I grant, would not appear to advantage 
seated on a pillion, and attired in a di-ab Joseph^ and a 
drab beaver bonnet, with a crown resembling a small 
stew-pan; for a garment suggesting a coachman's great- 
coat, cut out under an exiguity of cloth that would only 
allow of miniature capes, is not well adapted to conceal 
deficiencies of contour, nor is drab a colour that will 
throw sallow cheeks into lively contrast. It was all the 
greater triumph to Miss Nancy Lammeter's beauty that 
she looked thoroughly bewitching in that costume, as, 
seated on the pillion behind her tall, erect father, she 
held one arm round him, and looked down, with open- 
eyed anxiety, at the treacherous snow-covered pools and 
puddles, which sent up formidable splashings of mud 
under the stamp of Dobbin's foot. A painter would, 
perhaps, have preferred her in those moments when she 
was free from self -consciousness ; but certainly the 
bloom on her cheeks was at its highest point of contrast 
with the surrounding drab when she arrived at the door 
of the Red House, and saw Mr. Godfrey Cass ready to 
lift her from the pillion. She wished her sister Pris- 
cilla had come up at the same time behind the servant, 
for then she would have contrived that Mr. Godfrey 
should have lifted off Priscilla first, and, in the mean- 

^ A woman's riding habit, buttoned all the way down the 
front. 

158 



SILAS MARNER 159 

time, she would have persuaded her father to go round 
to the horse-block instead of alighting at the door -steps. 
It was very painful, when you had made it quite clear to 
a young man that you were determined not to marry 
him, however much he might wish it, that he would 
still continue to pay you marked attentions; besides, 
why didn't he always show the same attentions, if he 
meant them sincerely, instead of being so strange as Mr. 
Godfrey Cass was, sometimes behaving as if he didn't 
want to speak to her, and taking no notice of her for 
weeks and Aveelis, and then, all on a sudden, almost 
making love again? Moreover, it was quite plain he 
had no real love for her, else he would not let people 
have that to say of him which they did say. Did he sup- 
pose that Miss Nancy Lammeter was to be won by any 
man, squire or no squire, who led a bad life? That was 
not what she had been used to see in her own father, 
who was the soberest and best man in that country-side, 
only a little hot and hasty now and then, if things were 
not done to the minute. 

All these thoughts rushed through Miss fancy's 
mind, in their habitual succession, in the moments 
between her first sight of Mr. Godfrey Cass standing at 
the door and her own arrival there. Happily, the 
Squire came out too and gave ;i loud greeting to her 
father, so that, somehow, under cover of this noise she 
seemed to find concealment for her confusion and neg- 
lect of any suitably formal behaviour, v/hile she was 
being lifted from the pillion by strong arms which 
seemed to find her ridiculously small and light. And 
there was the best reason for hastening into the house at 
once, . since the snow was beginning to fall again, 



160 SILAS MARNER 

threatening an unpleasant journey for sncli guests as 
were still on the road. These were a small minority ; 
for already the afternoon was beginning to decline, and 
there would not be too much time for the ladies who 
came from a distance to attire themselves in readiness 
for the early tea which was to inspirit them for the 
dance. 

There was a buzz of voices through the house, as Miss 
Nancy entered, mingled with the scrape of a fiddle 
preluding in the kitchen; but the Lammeters were 
guests whose arrival had evidently been thought of so 
much that it had been watched for from the windows, 
for Mrs. Kimble, who did the honours at the Eed House 
on these great occasions, came forward to meet Miss 
Nancy in the hall, and conduct her up-stairs. Mrs. 
Kimble was the Squire's sister, as well as the doctor's 
wife — a double dignity, with which her diameter was in 
direct proportion; so that, a journey up-stairs being 
rather fatiguing to her, she did not oppose Miss Nancy's 
request to be allowed to find her way alone to the Blue 
Room, where the Miss Lammeters' bandboxes had been 
deposited on their arrival in the morning. 

There was hardly a bedroom in the house where femi- 
nine compliments were not passing and feminine toilettes 
going forward, in various stages, in space made scanty 
by extra beds spread upon the floor ; and Miss Nancy, as 
she entered the Blue Room, had to make her little for- 
mal curtsy to a group of six. On the one hand, there 
were ladies no less important than the two Miss Gunns, 
the wine merchant's daughters from Lytherly, dressed 
in the height of fashion, with the tightest skirts and the 
shortest waists, and gazed at by Miss Ladbrook (of the 



SILAS MARNER 161 

Old Pastures) with a shyness not unsustained by inward 
criticism. Partly, Miss Ladbrook felt that her own 
skirt must be regarded as unduly lax by the Miss Gunns, 
and partly, that it was a pity the Miss Gunns did not 
show that judgment which she herself would show if she 
were in their place, by stopping a little on this side of 
the fashion. On the other hand, Mrs. Ladbrook wafi. 
standing in skull-cap and front, with her turban in her 
hand, curtsying and smiling blandly and saying, "After 
you, ma'am," to another lady in similar circumstances,, 
who had politely offered the precedence at the looking- 
glass. 

But Miss Nancy had no sooner made her curtsy than 
an elderly lady came forward, whose full white muslin 
kerchief, and mob-cap round her curls of smooth grey 
hair, were in daring contrast with the puffed yellow 
satins and top-knotted caps of her neighbours. She 
approached Miss Nancy with much primness, and said, 
with a slow, treble suavity — 

** Niece, I hope I see you well in health." Miss 
Nancy kissed her aunt's cheek dutifully, and answered, 
with the same sort of amiable primness, "Quite well, I 
thank you, aunt; and I hope I see you the same." 

"Thank you, niece; I keep my health for the present. 
And how is my brother-in law?" 

These dutiful questions and answers were continued 
until it was ascertained in detail that the Lammeters 
were all as well as usual, and the Osgoods likewise, also 
that niece Priscilla must certainly arrive shortly, and 
that travelling on pillions in snowy weather was unpleas- 
ant, though a Joseph was a great protection. Then 
Nancy was formally introduced to her aunt's visitors, 



162 SILAS MARNER 

the Miss Gunns, as being the daughters of a mother 
known to their mother, though now for the first time 
induced to make a journey into these parts ; and these 
ladies were so taken by surprise at finding such a lovely 
face and figure in an out-of-the-way country place, that 
they began to feel some curiosity about the dress she 
would put on when she took off her Joseph. Miss 
Nancy, whose thoughts were always conducted with the 
propriety and moderation conspicuous in her manners, 
remarked to herself that the Miss Gunns were rather 
hard featured than otherwise, and that such yery low 
dresses as they wore might have been attributed to 
vanity if their shoulders had been pretty, but that, 
being as they were, it was not reasonable to suppose that 
they showed their necks from a love of display, but 
rather from some obligation not inconsistent with sense 
and modesty. She felt convinced, as she opened her 
box, that this must be her aunt Osgood's opinion, for 
Miss Nancy's mind resembled her aunt's to a degree 
that everybody said was surprising, considering the kin- 
ship was on Mr. Osgood's side; and though you might 
not have supposed it from the formality of their greet- 
ing, there was a devoted attachment and mutual admi- 
ration between aunt and niece. Even Miss Nancy's 
refusal of her cousin Gilbert Osgood (on the ground 
solely that he was her cousin), though it had grieved her 
aunt greatly, had not in the least cooled the preference 
which had determined her to leave Nancy several of her 
hereditary ornaments, let Gilbert's future wife be whom 
she might. 

Three of the ladies quickly retired, but the Misa 
Gunns were quite content that Mrs. Osgood's inclina- 



SILAS MARNER 16J5 

tion to remain with her niece gave them also a reason for 
staying to see the rustic beauty's toilette. And it was 
really a pleasure — from the first opening of the band- 
box, where everything smelt of lavender and rose-leaves, 
to the clasping of the small coral necklace that fitted 
closely round her little white neck. Everything belong- 
ing to Miss Nancy was of delicate purity and nattiness : 
not a crease was where it had no business to be, not a 
bit of her linen professed whiteness without fulfilling 
its profession; the very pins on her pincushion were 
stuck in after a pattern from which she was careful to 
allow no aberration; and as for her own person, it gave 
the same idea of perfect unvarying neatness as the body 
of a little bird. It is true that her light-brown hair was 
cropped behind like a boy's, and was dressed in front in 
a number of fiat rings, that lay quite away from her 
face ; but there was no sort of coiffure that could make 
Miss Nancy's cheek and neck look otherwise than 
pretty ; and when at last she stood complete in her silvery 
twilled silk, her lace tucker, her coral necklace, and 
coral ear-drops, the Miss Gunns could see nothing to 
criticise except her hands, which bore the traces of 
butter-making, cheese-crushing, and even still coarser 
work. But Miss Nancy was not ashamed of that, for 
while she was dressing she narrated to her aunt how she 
and Priscilla had packed their boxes yesterday, because 
this morning was baking morning, and since they wore 
leaving home, it was desirable to make a good supply of 
meat-pies for the kitchen; and as she concluded this 
judicious remark, she turned to the Miss Gunns that 
she might not commit the rudeness of not including 
them in the conversation. The Miss Gunns smiled 



164 SILAS MARNER 

stiffly, and thought what a pity it was that these rich 
country people, who could afford to huy such good 
clothes (really Miss Nancy's lace and silk were very 
costly), should be brought up in utter ignorance and 
vulgarity. She actually said "mate" for "meat," 
"'appen" for "perhaps," and "oss" for "horse," 
which to young ladies living in good Lytherly society, 
who habitually said 'orse, even in domestic privacy, and 
only said 'appen on the right occasions, was necessarily 
shocking. Miss Nancy, indeed, had never been to any 
school higher than Dame Tedman's; her acquaintance 
with profane literature hardly went beyond the rhymes 
she had worked in her large sampler under the lamb and 
the shepherdess ; and in order to balance an account, 
she was obliged to effect her subtraction by removing 
visible metallic shillings and sixpences from a visible 
metallic total. There is hardly a servant-maid in these 
days who is not better informed than Miss Nancy ; yet 
she had the essential attributes of a lady — high veracity, 
delicate honour in her dealings, deference to others, and 
refined personal habits ; — and lest these should not suffice 
to convince grammatical fair ones that her feelings can 
at all resemble theirs, I will add that she was slightly 
proud and exacting, and as constant in her affection 
towards a baseless opinion as towards an erring 
lover. 

The anxiety about sister Priscilla, which had grown 
rather active by the time the coral necklace was clasped, 
was happily ended by the entrance of that cheerful -look- 
ing lady herself, with a face made blowsy by cold and 
damp. After the first questions and greetings, she 
turned to Nancy, and surveyed her from head to foot — 



SILAS MARNER 165 

then wheeled her round, to ascertain that the back view 
was equally faultless. 

"What do you think o' these gowns, aunt Osgood?" 
said Priscilla, while Nancy helped her to unrobe. 

*'Very handsome indeed, niece," said Mrs. Osgood, 
with a slight increase of formality. She always thought 
niece Priscilla too rough. 

"I'm obliged to have the same as Nancy, you know, 
for all I'm five years older, and it makes me look yallow; 
for she never will have anything without I have mine 
just like it, because she wants us to look like sisters. 
And I tell her, folks 'ull think it's my weakness makes 
me fancy as I shall look pretty in what she looks pretty 
in. For I am ugly — there's no denying that ; I feature 
my father's family. But, law! I don't mind, do you?" 
Priscilla here turned to the Miss Gunns, rattling on in 
too much preoccupation with the delight of talking, to 
notice that her candour was not appreciated. "The 
pretty uns do for fly-catchers — they keep the men off us. 
I've no opinion o' the men. Miss Gunn — I don't know 
what yoio have. And as for fretting and stewing about 
what tlieifW think of you from morning till night, and 
making your life uneasy about what they're doing when 
they're out o' your sight — as I tell Nancy, it's a folly 
no woman need be guilty of, if she's got a good father 
and a good home ; let her leave it to them as have got no 
fortin, and can't help themselves. As I say, Mr. Have- 
your-own-way is the best husband, and the only one I'd 
ever promise to obey. I know it isn't pleasant, when 
you've been used to living in a big way, and managing 
hogsheads and all that, to go and put your nose in by 
somebody else's fireside, or to sit down by yourself to a 



166 SILAS MARNER 

scrag or a knuckle;^ but, thank God! my father's a 
sober man and likely to live; and if you've got a man by 
the chimney-corner, it doesn't matter if he's childish — 
the business needn't be broke up." 

The delicate process of getting her narrow gown over 

her head without injury to her smooth curls, obliged 

^Miss Priscilla to pause in this rapid survey of life, and 

Mrs. Osgood seized the opportunity of rising and 

saying— 

**Well, niece, you'll follow us. The Miss Gunns will 
like to go down." 

'* Sister," said Nancy, when they were alone, "you've 
offended the Miss Gunns, I'm sure." 

"What have I done, child?" said Priscilla, in some 
alarm. 

"Why, you asked them if they minded about being 
ugly — ^you're so very blunt. " 

"Law, did I? Well, it popped out: it's a mercy I 
said no more, for I'm a bad un to live with folks when 
they don't like the truth. But as for being ugly, look 
at me, child, in this silver-coloured silk — I told you 
how it 'ud be — I look as yallow as a daffodil. Anybody 
'ud say you wanted to make a mawkin^ of me." 

"No, Priscy, don't say so. I begged and prayed of 
you not to let us have this silk if you'd like another 
better. I was willing to have your choice, you know I 
was," said Nancy, in anxious self -vindication. 

"Nonsense, child! you know you'd set your heart on 
this; and reason good, for you're the colour o' cream. 

^ A bony piece of meat or a knee joint. 
' Maud-kin, the diminutive of Maud : at first a kitchen maid, 
then a scarecrow. 



SILAS MAKNER 167 

It 'ud be fine doings for you to dress yourself to suit my 
skin. What I find fault with, is that notion o' yours as 
I must dress myself just like you. But you do as you 
like with me — you always did, from when first you 
begun to walk. If you wanted to go the field's length, 
the field's length you'd go; and there was no whipping 
you, for you looked as prim and innicent a& a daisy all 
the while." 

"Priscy," said Nancy, gently, as she fastened a coral 
necklace, exactly like her own, round Priscilla's neck, 
which was very far from being like her own, **I'm sure 
I'm willing to give way as far as is right, but who 
shouldn't dress alike if it isn't sisters? Would you have 
us go about looking as if we were no kin to one another 
— us that have got no mother and not another sister in 
the world? I'd do what was right, if I dressed in a 
gown dyed with cheese-colouring; and I'd rather you'd 
choose, and let me wear what pleases you." 

''There you go again! You'd come round to the 
same thing if one talked to you from Saturday night till 
Saturday morning. It'll be fine fun to see how you'll 
master your husband and never raise your voice above 
the singing o' the kettle all the while. I like to see the 
men mastered!" 

**Don't talk so, Priscy," said Nancy, blushing. 
"You know I don't mean ever to be married." 

**0h, you never mean a fiddlestick's end!" said 
Priacilla, as she arranged her discarded dress, and closed 
her bandbox. ''Who shall / have to work for when 
father's gone, if you are to go and take notions in your 
head and be an old maid, because some folks are no 
better than they should be? I haven't a bit o' patience 



168 SILAS MARNER 

with you — sitting on an addled egg for ever, as if there 
was never a fresh un in the world. One old maid's 
enough out o' two sisters ; and I shall do credit to a 
single life, for God A 'mighty meant me for it. Come, 
we can go down now. I'm as ready as a mawkin can be 
— there's nothing awanting to frighten the crows, now 
I've got my ear-droppers in." 

As the two Miss Lammeters walked into the large 
parlour together, any one who did not know the chai*- 
acter of both might certainly have supposed that the 
reason why the square-shouldered, clumsy, high-featured 
Priscilla wore a dress the facsimile of her pretty sister's, 
was either the mistaken vanity of the one, or the 
malicious contrivance of the other in order to set off her 
own rare beauty. But the good-natured self -forgetful 
cheeriness and common-sense of Priscilla would soon 
have dissipated the one suspicion; and the modest calm 
of Nancy's speech and manners told clearly of a mind 
free from all disavowed devices. 

Places of honour had been kept for the Miss Lam- 
meters near the head of the principal tea-table in the 
wainscoted parlour, now looking fresh and pleasant with 
handsome branches of holly, yew, and laurel, from the 
abundant growths of the old garden ; and Nancy felt an 
inward flutter, that no firmness of purpose could pre- 
vent, when she saw Mr. Godfrey Cass advancing to lead 
her to a seat between himself and Mr. Crackenthorp, 
while Priscilla was called to the opposite side between 
her father and the Squire. It certainly did make some 
difference to Nancy that the lover she had given up was 
the young man of quite the highest consequence in the 
parish — at home in a venerable and unique parlour, 



SILAS MARNER 169 

which was the extremity of grandeur in her experience, 
a parlour where she might one day have been mistress, 
with the consciousness that she was spoken of as 
*' Madam Cass," the Squire's wife. These circum- 
stances exalted her inward drama in her own eyes, and 
deepened the emphasis with which she declared to her- 
self that not the most'dazzling rank should induce her to 
marry a man whose conduct showed him careless of his 
character, but that, **love once, love always," was the 
motto of a true and pure woman, and no man should 
ever have any right over her which would be a call on 
her to destroy the dried flowers that she treasured, and 
always would treasure, for Godfrey Cass's sake. And 
Nancy was capable of keeping her word to herself under 
very trying conditions. Nothing but a becoming blush 
betrayed the moving thoughts that urged themselves 
upon her as she accepted the seat next to Mr. Cracken- 
thorp ; for she was so instinctively neat and adroit in all 
her actions, and her pretty lips met each other with such 
quiet firmness, that it would have been difficult for her 
to appear agitated. 

It was not the Rector's practice to let a charming 
blush pass without an appropriate compliment. He was 
not in the least lofty or aristocratic, but simply a merry- 
eyed, small-featured, grey-haired man, with his chin 
propped by an ample many- creased white neckcloth 
which seemed to predominate over every other point in 
his person, and somehow to impress its peculiar char- 
acter on his remarks; so that to have considered his 
amenities apart from his cravat would have been a 
severe, and perhaps a dangerous, effort of abstraction. 

**Ha, Miss Nancy," he said, turning his head within 



170 SILAS MARNER 

his cravat and smiling down pleasantly upon her, "when 
anybody pretends this has been a severe winter, I shall 
tell them I saw the roses blooming on New Year's Eve 
— eh, Godfrey, what do you say?" 

Godfrey made no reply, and avoided looking at Nancy 
very markedly ; for though these complimentary person- 
alities were held to be in excellent taste in old-fashioned 
Raveloe society, reverent love has a politeness of its own 
which it teaches to men otherwise of small schooling. But 
the Squire was rather impatient at Godfrey's showinr: 
himself a dull spark in this way. By this advanced 
hour of the day, the Squire was always in higher spirits 
than we have seen him in at the breakfast-table, and 
felt it quite pleasant to fulfil the hereditary duty of 
being noisily jovial and patronising: the large silver 
snuff-box was in active service and was offered without 
fail to all neighbours from time to time, however often 
they might have declined the favour. At present, the 
Squire liad only given an express welcome to the heads 
of families as they appeared; but always as the evening 
deepened, his hospitality rayed out more widely, till he 
had tapped the youngest guests on the back and shown 
a peculiar fondness for theh presence, in the full belief 
that they must feel their lives made happy by their 
belonging to a parish where there was such a hearty man 
as Squire Cass to invite them and wish them well. 
Even in this early stage of the jovial mood, it was nat- 
ural that he should wish to supply his son's deficiencies 
by looking and speaking for him. 

"Ay, ay," he began, offering his snuff-box to Mr. 
Lammeter, who for the second time bowed his head and 
waved his hand in stiff rejection of the offer, "us old 



SILAS MARNER 171 

fellows may wish ourselves young to-night, when we see 
the mistletoe-bough in the White Parlour. It's true, 
most things are gone back'ard in these last thirty years 
— the country's going down since the old king fell ill. 
But when I look at Miss Nancy here, I begin to think 
the lasses keep up their quality ; — ding me if I remem- 
ber a sample to match her, not when I w^as a fine young 
fellow, and thought a deal about my pigtail. No 
offence to you, madam," he added, bending to Mrs. 
Crackenthorp, who sat by him; "I didn't know you 
when you were as young as Miss Nancy here." 

Mrs. Crackenthorp — a small blinking woman, who 
fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold 
chain, turning her head about and making subdued 
noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its 
nose and soliloquises in all company indiscriminately — 
now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, 
*'0h no — no offence." 

This emphatic compliment of the Squire's to Nancy 
was felt by others besides Godfrey to have a diplomatic 
significance; and her father gave a slight additional 
erectness to his back, as he looked across the table at her 
with complacent gravity. That grave and orderly senior 
was not going to bate a jot of his dignity by seeming 
elated at the notion of a match between his family and 
the Squire's : he was gratified by any honour paid to his 
daughter ; but he must see an alteration in several ways 
before his consent would be vouchsafed. His spare but 
healthy person, and high-featured firm face, that looked 
as if it had never been flushed by excess, was in strong 
contrast, not only with the Squire's, but with the 
appearance of the Eaveloe farmers generally — in accord- 



172 SILAS MARNER 

ance with a favourite saying of his own, that "breed was 
stronger than pasture." 

**Miss Nancy's wonderful like what her mother was, 
though; isn't she, Kimble?" said the stout lady of that 
name, looking round for her husband. 

But Doctor Kimble (country apothecaries in old days 
enjoyed that title without authority of diploma), being a 
thin and agile man, was flitting about the room with his 
hands in his pockets, making himself agi-eeable to his 
feminine patients, with medical impartiality, and being 
welcomed everywhere as a doctor by hereditary right — 
not one of those miserable apothecaries who canvass for 
practice in strange neighbourhoods, and spend all their 
income in starving their one horse, but a man of sub- 
stance, able to keep an extravagant table like the best of 
his patients. Time out of mind the Raveloe doctor had 
been a Kimble; Kimble was inherently a doctor's name; 
and it was difficult to contemplate firmly the melancholy 
fact that the actual Kimble had no son, so that his 
practice might one day be handed over to a successor 
with the incongi'uous name of Taylor or Johnson. But 
in that case the wiser people in Kaveloe would employ 
Dr. Blick of Flitton — as less unnatural. '*Did you 
speak to me, my dear?" said the authentic doctor, com- 
ing quickly to his wife's side; but, as if foreseeing that 
she would be too much out of breath to repeat her re- 
mark, he went on immediately — "Ha, Miss Priscilla, 
the sight of you revives the taste of that super-excellent 
pork-pie. I hope the batch isn't near an end." 

"Yes, indeed, it is, doctor," said Priscilla; "but I'll 
answer for it the next shall be as gpod. My pork-pies 
don't turn out well by chance." 



SILAS MARNER 173 

*'Not as your doctoring does, eh, Kimble! — because 
folks forget to take your physic, eh?" said the Squire, 
who regarded physic and doctors as many loyal church- 
men regard the church and the clergy — tasting a joke 
against them when he was in health, but impatiently 
eager for their aid when anything was the matter with 
him. He tapped his box, and looked round with a 
triumphant laugh. 

**Ah, she has a quick wit, my friend Priscilla has," 
said the doctor, choosing to attribute the epigram to a 
lady .rather than allow a brother-in-law that advantage 
over him. **She saves a little pepper to sprinkle over 
her talk — that's the reason why she never puts too much 
into her pies. There's my wife, now, she never has an 
answer at her tongue's end; but if I offend her, she's 
sure to scarify my throat with black pepper the next 
day, or else give me the colic with watery greens. 
That's an awful tit-for-tat." Here the vivacious doctor 
made a pathetic grimace. 

**Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kinible, 
laughing above her double chin with much good- 
humour, aside to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who blinked 
and nodded, and amiably intended to smile, but 
the intention lost itself in small twitchings and 
noises. 

**I suppose that's the sort of tit-for-tat adopted in 
your profession, Kimble, if you've a grudge against a 
patient," said the rector. 

* 'Never do have a grudge against our patients," said 
Mr. Kimble, **except when they leave us: and then, 
you see, we haven't the chance of prescribing for 'em. 
Ha, Miss Nancy," he continued, suddenly skipping to 



174 SILAS MARNER 

Nancy's side, "you won't forget your promise? You're 
to save a dance for me, you know." 

**Come, come, Kimble, don't you be too for'ard," said 
the Squire. **Give the young uns fair-play. There's 
my son Godfrey '11 be wanting to have a round with you 
if you run off with Miss Nancy. He's bespoke her for 
the first dance, I'll be bound. Eh, sir ! what do you 
Bay?" he continued, throwing himself backward, and 
looking at Godfrey. * 'Haven't you asked Miss Nancy 
to open the dance with you?" 

Godfrey, sorely uncomfortable under this significant 
insistence about Nancy, and afraid to think where it 
would end by the time his father had set his usual 
hospitable example of drinking before and after supper, 
saw no course open but to turn to Nancy and say, with 
as little awkwardness as possible — 

**No; I've not asked her yet, but I hope she'll con- 
sent — if somebody else hasn't been before me." 

'*No, I've not engaged myself," said Nancy, quietly, 
though blushingly. (If Mr. Godfrey founded any 
hopes on her consenting to dance with bim, he would 
soon be undeceived ; but there was no need for her to be 
uncivil.) 

"Then I hope you've no objections to dancing with 
me," said Godfrey, beginning to lose the sense that 
there was anything uncomfortable in this arrange- 
ment. 

**No, no objections," said Nancy, in a cold tone. 

**Ah, well, you're a lucky fellow, Godfrey," said 
uncle Kimble; "bnt you're my godson, so I won't stand 
in your way. Else I'm not so very old, eh, my dear ? " 
he went on, skipping to his wife's side again. "You 



SILAS MARNER 175 

wouldn't mind my having a second after you were gone 
— not if I cried a good deal first?" 

"Come, come, take a cup o' tea and stop your tongue^ 
do," said good-humoured Mrs. Kimble, feeling some 
pride in a husband who must be regarded as so clever 
and amusing by the company generally. If he had only 
not been irritable at cards ! 

While safe, well-tested personalities were enlivening 
the tea in this way, the sound of the fiddle approaching 
within a distance at which it could be heard distinctly, 
made the young people look at each other with sympa- 
thetic impatience for the end of the meal. 

"Why, there's Solomon in the hall," said the Squire, 
"and playing my fav 'rite tune, /believe — 'The flaxen- 
headed ploughboy' — he's for giving us a hint as we 
aren't enough in a hurry to hear him play. Bob," he 
called out to his third long-legged son, who was at the 
other end of the room, "open the door, and tell Solomon 
to come in. He shall give us a tune here." 

Bob obeyed, and Solomon walked in, fiddling aa he 
walked, for he would on no account break off in the 
middle of a tune. 

"Here, Solomon," said the Squire, with loud 
patronage. "Round here, my man. Ah, I knew it 
was 'The flaxen-headed ploughboy': there's no finer 
tune." 

Solomon Macey, a small hale old man, with an abun- 
dant crop of long white hair reaching nearly to his 
shoulders, advanced to the indicated spot, bowing 
reverently while he fiddled, as much as to say that he 
respected the company though he respected the key-note 
more. As soon as he had repeated the tune and lowered 



176 SILAS MARNER 

his fiddle, he bowed again to the Squire and the Rector, 
and said, "I hope I see your honour and your reverence 
well, and wishing you health and long life and a happy 
New Year. And wishing the same to you, Mr. Lam- 
meter, sir ; and to the other gentlemen, and the madams, 
and the young lasses." 

As Solomon uttered the last words, he bowed in all 
directions solicitously, lest he should be wanting in due 
respect. But thereupon he immediately began to pre- 
lude, and fell into the tune which he knew would be 
taken as a special compliment by Mr. Lammeter. 

**Thank ye, Solomon, thank ye," said Mr. Lammeter 
when the fiddle paused again. *' That's 'Over the hills 
and far away,' that is. My father used to say to me, 
whenever we heard that tune, 'Ah, lad, / come from 
over the hills and far away.' There's a many tunes I 
don't make head or tail of ; but that speaks to me like 
the blackbird's whistle. I suppose it's the name: 
there's a deal in the name of a tune." 

But Solomon was already impatient to prelude again, 
and presently broke with much spirit into "Sir Roger 
de Coverley, " at which there was a sound of chairs 
pushed back, and laughing voices. 

"Ay, ay, Solomon, we know what that means," 
said the Squire, rising. "It's time to begin the 
dance, eh? Lead the way, then, and we'll all follow 
you." 

So Solomon, holding his white head on one side, and 
playing vigorously, marched forward at the head of the 
gay procession into the White Parlour, where the mistle- 
toe-bough was hung, and multitudinous tallow candles 
made rather a brilliant effect, gleaming from among the 



SILAS MARNER 177 

berried holly-boughs, and reflected in the old-fashioned 
oval mirrors fastened in the panels of the white wain- 
scot. A quaint procession! Old Solomon, in his seedy 
clothes and long white locks, seemed to be luring that 
decent company by the magic scream of his fiddle — lur- 
ing discreet matrons in turban-shaped caps, nay, Mrs. 
Crackenthorp herself, the summit of whose perpendic- 
ular feather was on a level with the Squire's shoulder — 
luring fair lasses complacently conscious of very short 
waists and skirts blameless of front-folds — ^luring burly 
fathers in large variegated waistcoats, and ruddy sons, 
for the most part shy and sheepish, in short nether gar- 
ments and very long coat-tails. 

Already Mr. Macey and a few other privileged vil- 
lagers, who were allowed to be spectators on these great 
occasions, were seated on benches placed for them near 
t*he door ; and great was the admiration and satisfaction 
in that quarter when the couples had formed themselves 
for the dance, and the Squire led off with Mrs. Cracken- 
thorp, joining hands with the Rector and Mrs. Osgood. 
That was as it should be — that was what everybody had 
been used to — and the charter of Eaveloe seemed to be 
renewed by the ceremony. It was not thought of as an 
unbecoming levity for the old and middle-aged people 
to dance a little before sitting down to cards, but rather 
as part of their social duties. For what were these if 
not to be merry at appropriate times, interchanging 
visits and poultry with due frequency, paying each other 
old-established compliments in sound traditional phrases, 
passing well-tried personal jokes, urging your guests to 
eat and drink too much out of hospitality, and eating 
and drinking too much in your neighbour's house to 



178 SILAS MARNER 

show that you liked your cheer? And the parson 
naturally set an example in these social duties. For it 
would not have been possible for the Raveloe mind, 
without a peculiar revelation, to know that a clergyman 
should be a pale-faced memento of solemnities, instead 
of a reasonably faulty man whose exclusive authority to 
read prayers and preach, to christen, marry, and bury 
you, necessarily coexisted with the right to sell you the 
ground to be buried in and to take tithe in kind ;* on 
which last point, of course, there was a little grumbling, 
but not to the extent of irreligion — not of deeper sig- 
nificance than the grumbling at the rain, which was by 
no means accompanied with a spirit of impious defiance, 
but with a desire that the prayer for fine weather might 
be read forthwith. 

There was no reason, then, why the rector's dancing 
should not be received as part of the fitness of things 
quite as much as the Squire's, or why, on the other 
hand, Mr. Macey's official respect should restrain him 
from subjecting the parson's performance to that 
criticism with which minds of extraordinary acuteness 
must necessarily contemplate the doings of their fallible 
fellow-men. 

*'The Squire's pretty springe,* considering his 
weight," said Mr. Macey, *'and he stamps uncommon 
well. But Mr. Lammeter beats 'em all for shapes : you 
see he holds his head like a sodger, and he isn't so 
cushiony as most o' the oldish gentlefolks — they run fat 
in general; and lie's got a fine leg. The parson's 
nimble enough, but he hasn't got much of a leg: it's a 

^ To receive in merchandise the tenth due the church. 
^ A provincialism for "active." 



SILAS MARNER 179 

bit too thick down'ard, and his knees might be a bit 
nearer wi'oiit damage; but he might do worse, he might 
do worse. Though he hasn't that grand way o' waving 
his hand as the Squire has." 

**Talk o' nimbleness, look at Mrs. Osgood," said Ben 
Winthrop, who was holding his son Aaron between his 
knees. "She trips along with her little steps, so as 
nobody can see how she goes — it's like as if she had 
little wheels to her feet. She doesn't look a day older 
nor last year: she's the finest-made woman as is, let the 
next be where she will." 

**I don't heed how the women are made," said Mr. 
Macey, with some contempt. **They wear nayther coat 
nor breeches : you can't make much out o' their shapes. *' 

*'Fayder," said Aaron, whose feet were busy beating 
out the tune, *'how does that big cock's -feather stick in 
Mrs. Crack enthorp's yead? Is there a little hole for it, 
like in my shuttle-cock?" 

'*Hush, lad, hush; that's the way the ladies dress 
theirselves, that is," said the father, adding, however, 
in an under-tone to Mr. Macey, *'It does make her 
look funny, though — partly like a short-necked bottle 
wi' a long quill in it. Hey, by jingo, there's the young 
Squire leading off now, wi' Miss Nancy for partners! 
There's a lass for you! — ^like a pink-and-white posy — 
there's nobody 'ud think as anybody could be so pritty. 
I shouldn't wonder if she's Madam Cass some day, arter 
all — and nobody more rightfuller, for they'd make a fine 
match. You can find nothing against Master Godfrey's 
shapes, Macey, /'ll bet a penny." 

Mr. Macey screwed up his mouth, leaned his head 
further on one side, and twirled his thumbs with a 



180 SILAS MARNER 

presto movement as his eyes followed Godfrey up the 
dance. At last he summed up his opinion. 

** Pretty well down-ard, but a bit too round i' the 
shoulder-blades. And as for them coats as he gets from 
the Flitton tailor, they're a poor cut to pay double 
money for." 

"Ah, Mr. Macey, you and me are two folks," said 
Ben, slightly indignant at this carping. "When I've 
got a pot o' good ale, I like to swaller it, and do my 
inside good, i'stead o' smelling and staring at it to see if 
I can't find faut wi' the brewing. I should like you to 
pick me out a finer -limbed young fellow nor Master 
Godfrey — one as 'ud knock you down easier, or 's more 
pleasanter looksed when he's piert and merry." 

"Tchuh!" said Mr. Macey, provoked to increased 
severity, "he isn't come to his right color yet: he's 
partly like a slack-baked pie. And I doubt he's got a 
soft place in his head, else why should he be turned 
round the finger by that offal Dunsey as nobody's seen 
o' late, and let him kill that fine hunting hoss as was 
the talk o' the country? And one while he was allays 
after Miss Nancy, and then it all went off again, like a 
smell o' hot porridge, as I may say. That wasn't my 
way when /went a-coorting." 

"Ah, but mayhap Miss Nancy hung off like, and your 
lass didn't," said Ben. 

"I should say she didn't," said Mr. Macey, signifi- 
cantly. "Before I said 'sniff,' I took care to know as 
she'd say 'snaff,' and pretty quick too. I wasn't a- 
going to open my mouth, like a dog at a fly, and snap it 
to again, wi' nothing to swaller." 

"Well, I think Miss Nancy's a-coming round again," 



SILAS MARNER 181 

said Ben, "for Master Godfrey doesn't look so doAvn- 
hearted to-night. And I see lie's for taking her away to 
sit down, now they're at the end o' the dance: that 
looks like sweethearting, that does." 

The reason why Godfrey and Nancy had left the 
dance was not so tender as Ben imagined. In the close 
press of couples a slight accident had happened to 
Nancy's dress, which, while it was short enough to show 
her neat ankle in front, was long enough behind to be 
caught under the stately stamp of the Squire's foot, so 
as to rend certain stitches at the waist, and cause much 
sisterly agitation in Priscilla's mind, as well as serious 
concern in Nancy's. One's thoughts may be much 
occupied with love-struggles, but hardly so as to be 
insensible to a disorder in the general framework of 
things. Nancy had no sooner completed her duty in 
the figure they were dancing than she said to Godfrey, 
with a deep blush, that she must go and sit down till 
Priscilla could come to her ; for the sisters had already 
exchanged a short whisper and an open-eyed glance full 
of meaning. No reason less urgent than this could have 
prevailed on Nancy to give Godfrey this opportunity of 
sitting apart with her. As for Godfrey, he was feeling 
so happy and oblivious under the long charm of the 
country-dance with Nancy, that he got rather bold on 
the strength of her confusion, and was capable of lead- 
ing her straight away, without leave asked, into the 
adjoining small parlour, where the card-tables were 
set. 

*'0 no, thank you," said Nancy, coldly, as soon as she 
perceived where he was going, "not in there. I'll wait 
here till Priscilla's ready to come to me. I'm sorry to 



182 SILAS MARNER 

bring you out of the dance and make myself trouble- 
some." 

"Why, you'll be more comfortable here by yourself," 
said the artful Godfrey: "I'll leave you here till your 
sister can come." He spoke in an indifferent tone. 

That was an agreeable proposition, and just what 
Nancy desired; why, then, was she a little hurt that 
Mr. Godfrey should make it? They entered, and she 
seated herself on a chair against one of the card-tables, 
as the stiffest and most unapproachable position she 
could choose. 

"Thank you, sir," she said immediately. "I needn't 
give you any more trouble. I'm sorry you've had such 
an unlucky partner." 

"That's very ill-natured of you," said Godfrey, stand- 
ing by her without any sign of intended departure, "to 
be sorry you've danced with me." 

"Oh no, sir, I don't mean to say what's ill-natured at 
all," said Nancy, looking distractingly prim and pretty. 
"When gentlemen have so many pleasures, one dance 
can matter but very little." 

"You know that isn't true. You know one dance 
with you matters more to me than all the other pleasures 
in the world. ' ' 

It was a long, long while since Godfrey had said any- 
thing so direct as that, and Nancy was startled. But 
her instinctive dignity and repugnance to any show of 
emotion made her sit perfectly still, and only throw a 
little more decision into her voice, as she said — 

"No, indeed, Mr. Godfrey, that's not known to me, 
and I have very good reasons for thinking different. 
But if it's true, I don't wish to hear it." 



SILAS MARXER 183 

*' Would you never forgive me, then, Nancy — never 
think well of me, let what would happen — would you 
never think the present made amends for the past? 
Not if I turned a good fellow, and gave up everything 
you didn't like?" 

Godfrey was half conscious that this sudden opportu- 
nity of speaking to Nancy alone had driven him beside 
himself ; but blind feeling had got the mastery of his 
tongue. Nancy really felt much agitated by the possi- 
bility Godfrey's words suggested, but this very pressure 
of emotion that she was in danger of finding too strong 
for her roused all her power of self-command. 

**I should be glad to see a good change in anybody, 
Mr. Godfrey," she answered, with the slightest discern- 
ible difference of tone, "but it 'ud be better if no change 
was wanted." 

"You're very hard-hearted, Naucy," said Godfrey, 
pettishly, "You might encourage me to be a better 
fellow. I'm very miserable — but you've no feeling." 

"I think those have the least feeling that act wrong 
to begin with," said Nancy, sending out a flash in spite 
of herself. Godfrey was delighted with that little flash, 
and would have liked to go on and make her quarrel 
with him ; Nancy was so exasperatingly quiet and firm. 
But she was not indifferent to him yet. 

The entrance of Priscilla, bustling forward and saying, 
"Dear heart alive, child, let us look at this gown," cut 
off Godfrey's hopes of a quarrel. 

"I suppose I must go now," he said to Priscilla. 

"It's no matter to me whether you go or stay," said 
that frank lady, searching for something in her pocket, 
with a preoccupied brow. 



184 SILAS MARNER 

*'Do you want me to go?" said Godfrey, looking at 
Nancy, who was now standing up by Priscilla's order. 

"As you like," said Nancy, trying to recover all her 
former coldness, and looking down carefully at the hem 
of her gown. 

"Then I like to stay," said Godfrey, with a reckless 
determination to get as much of this joy as he could 
to-night, and think nothing of the morrow. 



CHAPTER XII 

While Godfrey Cass was taking draughts of forget- 
fulness from the sweet presence of Nancy, willingly 
losing all sense of that hidden bond which at other 
moments galled and fretted him so as to mingle irrita- 
tion with the very sunshine, Godfrey's wife was walking 
with slow uncertain steps through the snow-covered 
Raveloe lanes, carrying her child in her arms. 

This journey on New Year's Eve was a premeditated 
act of vengeance which she had kept in her heart ever 
since Godfrey, in a fit of passion, had told her he would 
sooner die than acknowledge her as his wife. There 
would be a great party at the Red House on New Year's 
Eve, she knew: her husband would be smiling and 
smiled upon, hiding her existence in the darkest corner 
of his heart. But she would mar his pleasure: she 
would go in her dingy rags, with her faded face, once 
as handsome as the best, with her little child that had 
its father's hair and eyes, and disclose herself to the 
Squire as his eldest son's wife. It is seldom that the 
miserable can help regarding their misery as a wrong 
inflicted by those who are less miserable. Molly knew 
that the cause of her dingy rags was not her husband's 
neglect, but the demon Opium to whom she was 
enslaved, body and soul, except in the lingering mother's 
tenderness that refused to give him her hungry child. 
She knew this well; and yet, in the moments of 

185 



188 SILAS MARNER 

wretched unbenumbed consciousness, the sense of 
her want and degradation transformed itself continually 
into bitterness towards Godfrey. He was \roll off ; and 
if she had her rights she would be well off too. The 
belief that he repented his marriage, and suffered from 
it, only aggravated her vindictiveness. Just and self- 
reproving thoughts do not come to us too thickly, even 
in the purest air and with the best lessons of heaven and 
earth; how should those white-winged delicate messen- 
gers make their way to Molly's poisoned chamber, 
inhabited by no higher memories than those of a bar- 
maid's paradise of pink ribbons and gentlemen's jokes? 
She had set out at an early hour, but had lingered on 
the road, inclined by her indolence to believe that if 
she waited under a warm shed the snow would cease to 
fall. She had waited longer than she knew, and now 
that she found herself belated in the snow-hidden rug- 
gedness of the long lanes, even the animation of a vin- 
dictive purpose could not keep her spirit from failing. 
It was seven o'clock, and by this time she was not very 
far from Kaveloe, but she was not familiar enough with 
those monotonous lanes to know how near she was to 
her journey's end. She needed comfort, and she knew 
but one comforter — the familiar demon in her bosom ; 
but she hesitated a moment, after drawing out the black 
remnant, before she raised it to her lips. In that mo- 
ment the mother's love pleaded for painful consciousness 
rather than oblivion — pleaded to be left in aching weari- 
ness, rather than to have the encircling arms benumbed 
80 that they could not feel the dear burden. In another 
moment Molly had flung something away, but it was not 
the black remnant — it was an empty phial. And she 



SILAS MARNER 187 

walked on again under the breaking cloud, from which 
there came now and then the light of a quickly veiled 
star, for a freezing wind had sprung up since the snow- 
ing had ceased. But she walked always more and more 
drowsily, and clutched more and more automatically the 
sleeping child at her bosom. 

Slowly the demon was working his will, and cold and 
weariness were his helpers. Soon she felt nothing but 
a supreme immediate longing that curtained off all 
futurity — the longing to lie down and sleep. She had 
arrived at a spot where her footsteps were no longer 
checked by a hedgerow, and she had wandered vaguely, 
unable to distinguish any objects, notwithstanding the 
wide whiteness around her, and the growing starlight. 
She sank down against a straggling furze bush, an easy 
pillow enough; and the bed of snow, too, was soft. She 
did not feel that the bed was cold, and did not heed 
whether the child would wake and cry for her. But 
her arms had not yet relaxed their instinctive clutch ; 
and the little one slumbered on as gently as if it had 
been rocked in a lace-trimmed cradle. 

But the complete torpor came at last : the fingers lost 
their tension, the arms unbent ; then the little head fell 
away from the bosom, and the blue eyes opened wide on 
the cold starlight. At first there was a little peevish cry 
of "mammy," and an effort to regain the pillowing arm 
and bosom; but mammy's ear was deaf, and the pillow 
seemed to be slipping away backward. Suddenly, as 
the child rolled downward on its mother's knees, all wet 
with snow, its eyes were caught by a bright glancing 
light on the white ground, and, with the ready transi- 
tion of infancv. it was immediately absorbed in watching 



188 SILAS MARNER 

the bright living thing running towards it, yet never 
arriving. That bright living thing must be caught; 
and in an instant the child had slipped on all fours, and 
held out one little hand to catch the gleam. But the 
gleam would not be caught in that way, and now the 
head was held up to see where the cunning gleam came 
from. It came from a very bright place ; and the little 
one, rising on its legs, toddled through the snow, the 
old grimy shawl in which it was wrapped trailing behind 
it, and the queer little bonnet dangling at its back — 
toddled on to the open door of Silas Marner's cottage, 
and right up to the warm hearth, where there was a 
bright fire of logs and sticks, which had thoroughly 
warmed the old sack (Silas's greatcoat) spread out on 
the bricks to dry. The little one, accustomed to be left 
to itself for long hours without notice from its mother, 
squatted down on the sack, and spread its tiny hands 
towards the blaze, in perfect contentment, gurgling and 
making many inai'ticulate communications to the cheer- 
ful fire, like a new-hatched gosling beginning to find 
itself comfortable. But presently the warmth had a 
lulling effect, and the little golden head sank down on 
the old sack, and the blue eyes were veiled by their 
delicate half -transparent lids. 

But where was Silas Marner while this strange visitor 
had come to his heai'th? He was in the cottage, but he 
did not see the child. During the last few weeks, since 
he had lost his money, he had contracted the habit of 
opening his door and looking out from time to time, as 
if he thought that his money might be somehow coming 
back to him, or that some trace, some news of it, might 
be mysteriously on the road, and be caught by the lis- 



SILAS MARNER 189 

tening ear or the straining eye. It was chiefly at night, 
when he was not occupied in his loom, that he fell into 
this repetition of an act for which he could have assigned 
no definite purpose, and which can hardly be understood 
except by those who have undergone a bewildering sepa- 
ration from a supremely loved object. In the evening 
twilight, and later whenever the night was not dark, 
Silas looked out on that narrow prospect round the 
Stone-pits, listening and gazing, not with hope, but with 
mere yearning and unrest. 

This morning he had been told by some of his neigh- 
bours that it was New Year's Eve, and that he must sit 
up and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, 
because that was good luck, and might bring his money 
back again. This was only a friendly Raveloe-way of 
jesting with the half -crazy oddities of a miser, but it 
had perhaps helped to throw Silas into a more than 
usually excited state. Since the on-coming of twilight 
he had opened his door again and again, though only to 
shut it immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the 
falling snow. But the last time he opened it the snow 
had ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. 
He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while — there 
was really something on the road coming towards him 
then, but he caught no sign of it ; and the stillness and 
the wide trackless snow seemed to narrow his solitude, 
and touched his yearning with the chill of despair. He 
went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of 
the door to close it — but he did not close it : he was 
arrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the 
invisible wand of catalepsy, and stood like a graven 
image, with wide but sightless eyes, holding open his 



190 SILAS MARNER 

door, powerless to resist either the good or evil that 
might enter there. 

When Mai'ner's sensibility returned, he continued the 
action which had been arrested, and closed his door, 
unaware of the chasm in his consciousness, unaware of 
any intermediate change, except that the light had 
grown dim, and that he was chilled and faint. He 
thought he had been too long standing at the door and 
looking out. Turning towards the hearth, where the 
two logs had fallen apart, and sent forth only a red 
uncertain glimmer, he seated himself on his fireside 
chair, and was stooping to push his logs together, when, 
to his blurred vision, it seemed as if there were gold on 
the floor in front of the hearth. Gold! — his own gold — 
brought back to him as mysteriously as it had been 
taken away ! He felt his heart begin to beat violently, 
and for a few moments he was unable to stretch out his 
hand and grasp the restored treasure. The heap of 
gold seemed to glow and get larger beneath his agitated 
gaze. He leaned forward at last, and stretched forth 
his hand; but instead of the hard coin with the familiar 
resisting outline, his fingers encountered soft warm 
curls. In utter amazement, Silas fell on his knees and 
bent his head low to examine the marvel : it was a sleep- 
ing child — a round, fair thing, with soft yellow rings all 
over its head. Could this be his little sister come back 
to him in a dream — his little sister whom he had carried 
about in his arms for a year before she died, when he 
was a small boy without shoes or stockings? That was 
the first thought that darted across Silas's blank wonder- 
ment. Was it a dream? He rose to his feet again, 
pushed his logs together, and, throwing on some dried 



SILAS MARNER 191 

leaTes and sticks, raised a flame; but the flame did not 
disperse the vision — it only lit up more distinctly the 
little round form of the child, and its shabby clothing. 
It was very much like his little sister. Silas sank into 
his chair powerless, under the double presence of an 
inexplicable surprise and a hurrying influx of memories. 
How and when had the child come in without his knowl- 
edge? He had never been beyond the door. But along 
with that question, and almost thrusting it away, there 
was a vision of the old home and the old streets leading 
to Lantern Yard — and within that vision another, of the 
thoughts which had been present with him in those far- 
off scenes. The thoughts were strange to him now, like 
old friendships impossible to revive ; and yet he had a 
dreamy feeling that this child was somehow a message 
come to him from that far-off life: it stirred fibres 
that had never been moved in Eaveloe — old quiver- 
ings of tenderness — old impressions of awe at the 
presentiment of some Power presiding over his life; 
for his imagination had not yet extricated itself from 
the sense of mystery in the child's sudden presence, 
and had formed no conjectures of ordinary natural 
means by which the event could have been brought 
about. 

But there was a cry on the hearth: the child hac^ 
awaked, and Marner stooped to lift it on his knee. It 
clung round his neck, and bm-st louder and louder into 
that mingling of inarticulate cries with "mammy" by 
which little children express the bewilderment of wak- 
ing. Silas pressed it to him, and almost unconsciously 
uttered sounds of hushing tenderness, while he bethought 
himself that some of his porridge, which had got cool by 



192 SILAS MARNER 

the dying fire, would do to feed the child with if it were 
only warmed up a little. 

He had plenty to do through the next hour. The 
porridge, sweetened with some dry brown sugar from an 
old store which he had refrained from using for himself, 
stopped the cries of the little one, and made her lift her 
blue eyes with a wide quiet gaze at Silas, as he put the 
spoon into her mouth. Presently she slipped from his 
knee and began to toddle about, but with a pretty stag- 
ger that made Silas jump up and follow her lest she 
should fall against anything that would hurt her. But 
she only fell in a sitting posture on the ground, and 
began to pull at her boots, looking up at him with a cry- 
ing face as if the boots hurt her. He took her on his 
knee again, but it was some time before it occurred to 
Silas's dull bachelor mind that the wet boots were the 
grievance, pressing on her warm ankles. He got them 
off with difficulty, and baby was at once happily occupied 
with the primary mystery of her own toes, inviting Silas, 
with much chuckling, to consider the mystery too. But 
the wet boots had at last suggested to Silas that the 
child had been walking on the snow, and this roused 
him from his entire oblivion of any ordinary means by 
which it could have entered or been brought into his 
house. Under the prompting of this new idea, and 
without waiting to form conjectures, he raised the child 
in his arms, and went to the door. As soon as he had 
opened it, there was the cry of "mammy" again, which 
Silas had not heard since the child's first hungry wak- 
ing. Bending forward, he could just discern the marks 
made by the little feet on the virgin snow, and he fol- 
lowed their track to the furze bushes. * 'Mammy!" the 



SILAS MARNER 193 

little one cried again and again, stretching itself forward 
so as almost to escape from Silas's arms, before he him- 
self was aware that there was something more than the 
bush before him — that there was a human body, with 
the head sunk low in the furze, and half -covered with 
the shaken snow. 



CHAPTER XIII 

It was after the early supper- time at the Red House, 
and the entertainment was in that stage when bashful- 
ness itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, 
conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at length 
be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the 
Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and 
patting his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at the whist- 
table — a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, 
being always volatile in sober business hours, became 
intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before 
his adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned 
up a mean trump -card with an air of inexpressible dis- 
gust, as if in a world where such things could happen 
one might as well enter on a course of reckless profli- 
gacy. When the evening had advanced to this pitch of 
freedom and enjoyment, it was usual for the servants, 
the heavy duties of supper being well over, to get their 
share of amusement by coming to look on at the danc- 
ing ; so that the back regions of the house were left in 
solitude. 

There were two doors by which the White Parlour 
was entered from the hall, and they were both standing 
open for the sake of au' ; but the lower one was crowded 
with the servants and villagers, and only the upper door- 
way was left free. Bob Cass was figuring in a hornpipe, 
and his father, very proud of this lithe son, whom he 

J94 



SILAS MARNER 195 

repeatedly declared to be just like himself in his young 
days in a tone that implied this to be the very highest 
stamp of juvenile merit, was the centre of a group who 
had placed themselves opposite the performer, not far 
from the upper door. Godfrey was standing a little way 
off, not to admire his brother's dancing, but to keep 
sight of Nancy, who was seated in the group, near her 
father. He stood aloof, because he wished to avoid 
suggesting himself as a subject for the Squire's fatherly 
jokes in connection with matrimony and Miss Nancy 
Lammeter's beauty, which were likely to become more 
and more explicit. But he had the prospect of dancing 
with her again when the hornpipe was concluded, and 
in the meanwhile it was very pleasant to get long glances- 
at her quite unobserved. 

But when Godfrey was lifting his eyes from one of 
those long glances, they encountered an object as stai • 
tling to him at that moment as if it had been an appa 
rition from the dead. It tvas an apparition from that 
hidden life which lies, like a dark by-street, behind the 
goodly ornamented fa<jade that meets the sunlight and 
the gaze of respectable admhers. It was his own child 
carried in Silas Marner's arms. That was his instantane- 
ous impression, unaccompanied by doubt, though he had 
not seen the child for months past ; and when the hope 
was rising that he might possibly be mistaken, Mr. 
Crackenthorp and Mr. Lammeter had already advanced 
to Silas, in astonishment at this strange advent. God- 
frey joined them immediately, unable to rest without 
hearing every word — trying to control himself, but con- 
scious that if any one noticed him, they must see that 
he was white-lipped and trembling. 



196 SILAS MARNER 

But now all eyes at that end of the room were bent on 
Silas Marner; the Squire himself had risen, and asked 
angrily, "How's this? — wfiat's this? — what do you do 
coming in here in this way?" 

"I'm come for the doctor — I want the doctor," 
Silas had said, in the first moment, to Mr. Cracken- 
thorp. 

"Why, what's the matter, Marner?" said the rector. 
"The doctor's here; but say quietly what you want 
him for." 

"It's a woman," said Silas, speaking low, and half- 
breathlessly, just as Godfrey came up. "She's dead, I 
think — dead in the snow at the Stone-pits — not far 
from my door." 

Godfrey felt a great throb : there was one terror in 
his mind at that moment: it was, that the woman 
might not be dead. That was an evil terror — an ugly 
inmate to have found a nestling-place in Godfrey's 
kindly disposition; but no disposition is a security from 
evil wishes to a man whose happiness hangs on 
duplicity. 

"Hush, hush!" said Mr. Crackenthorp. "Go out 
into the hall there. I'll fetch the doctor to you. 
Found a woman in the snow — and thinks she's dead," 
he added, speaking low, to the squire. "Better say as 
little about it as possible: it will shock the ladies. 
Just tell them a poor woman is ill from cold and 
hunger. I'll go and fetch Kimble. " 

By this time, however, the ladies had pressed forward, 
curious to know what could have brought the solitary 
linen -weaver there under such strange circumstances, 
and interested in the pretty child, who, half alarmed 



SILAS MARNER 197 

and half attracted by the brightness and the numerous 
company, now frowned and hid her face, now lifted up 
her head again and looked round placably, until a touch 
or a coaxing word brought back the frown, and made 
her bury her face with new determination. 

"What child is it?" said several ladies at once, and, 
among the rest, Nancy Lammeter, addressing Godfrey. 

*'I don't know — some poor woman's who has been 
found in the snow, I believe," was the answer Godfrey 
wrung from himself with a terrible effort. (*' After all, 
am I certain?" he hastened to add, in anticipation of 
his own conscience.) 

*'Why, you'd better leave the child here, then, 
Master Marner," said good-natured Mrs. Kimble, 
hesitating, however, to take those dingy clothes into 
contact with her own ornamented satin boddice. *'I'll 
tell one o' the girls to fetch it." 

**No — no — I can't part with it,^ I can't let it go," 
said Silas, abruptly. ''It's come to me — I've a right 
to keep it." 

The proposition to take the child from him had come 
to Silas quite unexpectedly, and his speech, uttered 
under a strong sudden impulse, was almost like a 
revelation to himself: a minute before, he had no dis- 
tinct intention about the child. 

"Did you ever hear the like?" said Mrs. Kimble, in 
mild surprise, to her neighbour. 

"Now, ladies, I must trouble you to stand aside," 
said Mr. Kimble, coming from the card-room, in some 
bitterness at the interruption, but drilled by the long 

' Note how eagerly the empty soul of Silas clings to an 
object of affection. 



198 SILAS MARNER 

habit of his profession into obedience to unpleasant 
calls, even when he was hardly sober. 

''It's a nasty business turning out now, eh, Kim- 
ble?'"' said the Squire. "He might ha' gone for 
your young fellow — ^the 'prentice, there — what's his 
name?" 

"Might? ay — what's the use of talking about 
might?" growled uncle Kimble, hastening out with 
Marner, and followed by Mr. Crackenthorp and God- 
frey. "Get me a pair of thick boots, Godfrey, will you? 
And stay, let somebody run to Winthrop's and fetch 
Dolly — she's the best woman to get. Ben was here 
himself before supper; is he gone?" 

"Yes, sir, I met him," said Marner; "but I couldn't 
stop to tell him anything, only I said I was going for 
the doctor, and he said the doctor was at the Squire's. 
And I made haste and ran, and there was nobody to be 
seen at the back o' the house, and so I went in to 
where the company was." 

The child, no longer distracted by the bright light 
and the smiling women's faces, began to cry and call 
for "mammy," though always clinging to Marner, who 
had apparently won her thorough confidence. Godfrey 
had come back with the boots, and felt the cry as if 
some fibre were drawn tight within him. 

"I'll go," he said, hastily, eager for some movement; 
"I'll go and fetch the woman — Mrs. Winthrop." 

"0, pooh — send somebody else," said uncle Kimble, 
hurrying away with Marner. 

"You'll let me know if I can be of any use, Kimble," 
said Mr. Crackenthorp. But the doctor was out of 
hearing. 



SILAS MARNER 199 

Godfrey, too, had disappeared : he was gone to snatch 
his hat and coat, having just reflection enough to 
remember that he must not look like a madman; but he 
rushed out of the house into the snow without heeding 
his thin shoes. 

In a few minutes he was on his rapid way to the 
Stone-pits by the side of Dolly, who, though feeling 
that she was entirely in her place in encountering cold 
and snow on an errand of mercy, was much concerned 
at a young gentleman's getting his feet wet under a 
like impulse. 

"You'd a deal better go back, sir,'' said Dolly, with 
respectful compassion. *' You've no call to catch cold ; 
and I'd ask you if you'd be so good as tell my hus- 
band to come, on your way back — he's at the Rainbow, 
I doubt — if you found him anyway sober enough to be 
o' use. Or else, there's ^Irs. Snell 'ud happen send the 
boy up to fetch and carry, for there may be things 
wanted from the doctor's." 

*'No, I'll stay, now I'm once out — I'll stay outside 
here," said Godfrey, when they came opposite Marner's 
cottage. "You can come and tell me if I can do any- 
thing." 

"Well, sir, you're very good: you've a tender heart," 
said Dolly, going to the door. 

Godfrey was too painfully preoccupied to feel a 
twinge of self-reproach at this undeserved praise. He 
walked up and down, unconscious that he was plunging 
ankle-deep in snow, unconscious of everything but 
trembling suspense about what was going on in the cot- 
tage, and the effect of each alternative on his future lot. 
^0, not quite unconscious of everything else. Deeper 



200 SILAS MARNER 

down, and half-smothered by passionate desire and 
dread, there was the sense that he ought not to be waiting 
on these alternatives; that he ought to accept the conse- 
quences of his deeds, own the miserable wife, and fulfil 
the claims of the helpless child. But he had not moral 
courage enough to contemplate that active renunciation 
of Nancy as possible for him : he had only conscience 
and heart enough to make him for ever uneasy under 
the weakness that forbade the renunciation. And at 
this moment his mind leaped away from all restraint 
toward the sudden prospect of deliverance from his 
long bondage. 

*'Is she dead?" said the voice that predominated over 
every other within him. "If she is, I may marry 
Nancy; and then I shall be a good fellow in future, and 
have no secrets, and the child — shall be taken care of 
somehow." But across that vision came the other 
possibility — *'She may live, and then it's all up with 
me." 

Godfrey never knew how long it was before the door 
of the cottage opened and Mr. Kimble came out. He 
went forward to meet his uncle, prepared to suppress 
the agitation he must feel, whatever news he was to 
hear. 

"I waited for you, as I'd come so far," he said, 
speaking first. 

"Pooh, it was nonsense for you to come out: why 
didn't you send one of the men? There's nothing to be 
done. She's dead — has been dead for hours, I should 
say." 

"What sort of woman is she?" said Godfrey, feeling 
the blood rush to his face. 



SILAS MARNER 201 

''A young woman, but emaciated, with long black 
hair. Some vagrant — quite in rags. She's got a wed- 
ding-ring on, however. They must fetch her away to 
the workhouse to-morrow. Come, come along.'' 

**I want to look at her," said Godfrey. *'I think I 
saw such a woman yesterday. I'll overtake you in a 
minute or two." 

Mr. Kimble went on, and Godfrey turned back to the 
cottage. He cast only one glance at the dead face on 
the pillow, which Dolly had smoothed with decent care ; 
but he remembered that last look at his unhappy hated 
wife so well, that at the end of sixteen years every line 
in the worn face was present to him when he told the 
full story of this night. 

He turned immediately towards the hearth, where 
Silas Marner sat lulling the child. She was perfectly 
quiet now, but not asleep — only soothed by sweet por- 
ridge and warmth into that wide-gazing calm which 
makes us older human beings, with our inward turmoil, 
feel a certain awe in the presence of a little child, such 
as we feel before some quiet majesty or beauty in the 
earth or sky — before a steady glowing planet, or a full- 
flowered eglantine, or the bending trees over a silent 
pathway. The wide-open blue eyes looked up at God- 
frey's without any uneasiness or sign of recognition: the 
child could make no visible audible claim on its father ; 
and the father felt a strange mixture of feelings, a con- 
flict of regret and joy, that the pulse of that little heart 
had no response for the half-jealous yearning in his 
own, when the blue eyes turned away from him slowly, 
and fixed themselves on the weaver's queer face, which 
was bent low down to look at them, while the small 



202 SILAS ]JIARNER 

hand began to pull Marner's withered cheek with loving 
disfiguration. 

** You'll take the child to the parish to-morrow?" 
asked Godfrey, speaking as indifferently as he couldc 
' "Who says so?" said Marner, sharply. "Will they 
make me take her?" 

*'Why, you wouldn't like to keep her, should you — an 
old bachelor like you?" 

"Till anybody shows they've a right to take her 
away from me," said Marner. "The mother's dead, 
and I reckon it's got no father: it's a lone thing — and 
I'm a lone thing. My money's gone, I don't know 
where — and this is come from I don't know where. I 
know nothing — I'm partly mazed." 

"Poor little thing!" said Godfrey. "Let me give 
something towards finding it clothes." 

He had put his hand in his pocket and found half- 
a-guinea, and, thrusting it into Silas's hand, he hurried 
out of the cottage to overtake Mr. Kimble. 

"Ah, I see it's not the same woman I saw," he said, 
as he came up. "It's a pretty little child: the old fel- 
low seems to want to keep it; that's strange for a miser 
like him. But I gave him a trifle to help him out : the 
parish isn't likely to quarrel with him for the right to 
keep the child." 

"No; but Pve seen the time when I might have 
quarrelled with him for it myself. It's too late now, 
though. If the child ran into the fire, your aunt's too 
fat to overtake it : she could only sit and grunt like an 
alarmed sow. But what a fool you are, Godfrey, to 
come oat in your dancing shoes and stockings in this 
way — and you one of the beaux of the evening, and at 



SILAS MARNER 203 

your own house ! What do you mean by such freaks, 
young fellow? Has Miss Nancy been cruel, and do you 
want to spite her by spoiling your pumps?" 

"0, everything has been disagreeable to-night. I 
was tired to death of jigging and gallanting, and that 
bother about the hornpipes. And I'd got to dance with 
the other Miss Gunn," said Godfrey, glad of the subter- 
fuge his uncle had suggested to him. 

The prevarication and white lies which a mind that 
keeps itself ambitiously pure is as uneasy under as a 
great artist under the false touches that no eye detects 
but his own, ai'e worn as lightly as mere trimmings 
when once the actions have become a lie. 

Godfrey reappeared in the White Parlour with dry 
feet, and, since the truth must be told, with a sense of 
relief and gladness that was too strong for painful 
thoughts to struggle with. For could he not venture 
now, whenever opportunity offered, to say the tenderest 
things to Nancy Lammeter — to promise her and him- 
self that he would always be just what she would desire 
to see him? There was no danger that his dead wife 
would be recognised: those were not days of active 
inquiry and wide report ; and as for the registry of their 
marriage, that was a long way off, buried in unturned 
pages, away from every one's interest but his own. 
Dunsey might betray him if he came back ; but Dansey 
might be won to silence. 

And when events turn out so much better for a man 
than he has had reason to dread, is it not a proof that 
his conduct has been less foolish and blameworthy than 
it might otherwise have appeared? When we are treated 
well, we naturally begin to think that we are not alto- 



204 SILAS MARNER 

gether unmeritorious, and that it is only just we should 
treat ourselves well, and not mar our own good fortune. 
Where, after all, would be the use of his confessing the 
past to Nancy Lammeter, and throwing away his happi- 
ness? — nay, hers? for he felt some confidence that she 
loved him. As for the child, he would see that it was 
cared for : he would never forsake it ; he would do every- 
thing but own it. Perhaps it would be just as happy in 
life without being owned by its father, seeing that 
nobody could tell how things would turn out, and that 
— is there any other reason wanted? — well, then, that 
the father would be much happier without owning the 
child. 



CHAPTER XIV 

Theee was a pauper's burial that week in Raveloe, 
and up Kencli Yard at Batherley it was known that the 
dark-haired woman with the fair child, who had lately 
come to lodge there, was gone away again. That was 
all the express note taken that Molly had disappeared 
from the eyes of men. But the unwept death which, to 
the general lot, seemed as trivial as the summer-shed 
leaf, was charged with the force of destiny to certain 
human lives that we know of, shaping their joys and 
sorrows even to the end. 

Silas Marner's determination to keep the *' tramp's 
child" was matter of hardly less surprise and iterated 
talk in the village than the robbery of his money. That 
softening of feeling towards him which dated from his 
misfortune, that merging of suspicion and dislike in a 
rather contemptuous pity for him as lone and crazy, was 
now accompanied with a more active sympathy, espe- 
cially amongst the women. Notable mothers, who knew 
what it was to keep children "whole and sweet;" lazy 
mothers, who knew what it was to be interrupted in 
folding their arms and scratching their elbows by the 
mischievous propensities of children just firm on their 
legs, were equally interested in conjecturing how a lone 
man would manage with a two-year-old child on his 
hands, and were equally ready with their suggestions : 
the notable chiefly telling him what he had better do, 

205 



206 SILAS MARNER 

and the lazy ones being emphatic in telling him what he 
•would never be able to do. 

Among the notable mothers, Dolly Winthrop was the 
one whose neighbourly offices were the most acceptable 
to Marner, for they were rendered without any show of 
bustling instruction. Silas had shown her the half- 
guinea given to him by Godfrey, and had asked her 
what he should do about getting some clothes for the 
child. 

*'Eh, Master Marner," said Dolly, ^'there's no call to 
buy, no more nor a pair o' shoes ; for I've got the little 
petticoats as Aaron wore five years ago, and it's ill 
spending the money on them baby-clothes, for the child 
'nil grow like grass i' May, bless it — that it will." 

And the same day Dolly brought her bundle, and dis- 
played to Marner, one by one, the tiny garments in their 
due order of succession, most of them patched and 
darned, but clean and neat as fresh-sprung herbs. This 
was the introduction to a great ceremony with soap and 
water, from which baby came out in new beauty, and sat 
on Dolly's knee, handling her toes and chuckling and 
patting her palms together with an air of having made 
several discoveries about herself, which she communi- 
cated by alternate sounds of *'gug-gug-gug," and 
''mammy." The "mammy" was not a cry of need or 
uneasiness: Baby had been used to utter it without 
expecting either tender sound or touch to follow. 

"Anybody 'ud think the angils in heaven couldn't be 
prettier," said Dolly, rubbing the golden curls and kiss- 
ing them. "And to think of its being covered wi' them 
dirty rags — and the poor mother — ^f roze to death ; but 
there's Them as took care of it, and brought it to your 



SILAS MARNER 207 

door, Master Marner. The door was open, and it 
walked in over the snow, like as if it had been a little 
starved robin. Didn't yon say the door was open?" 

*'Yes," said Silas, meditatively. "Yes — the door 
was open. The money's gone I don't know where, and 
this is come from I don't know where." 

He had not mentioned to any one his unconsciousness 
of the child's entrance, slu-inking from questions which 
might lead to the fact he himself suspected — namely, 
that he had been in one of his trances. 

*'Ah," said Dolly, with soothing gravity, "it's like 
the night and morning, and the sleeping and the wak- 
ing, and the rain and the harvest — one goes and the 
other comes, and we know nothing how nor where. 
We may strive and scrat and fend, but it's little we can 
do arter all — the big things come and go wi' no striv- 
ing o' our'n — they do, that they do; and I think you're 
in the right on it to keep the little un. Master Marner, 
seeing as it's been sent to you, though there's folks as 
thinks different. You'll happen be a bit moithered 
with it while it's so little; but I'll come, and welcome, 
and see to it for you: I've a bit o' time to spare most 
days, for when one gets up betimes i' the morning, the 
clock seems to stan' still tow'rt ten, afore it's time to go 
about the victual. So, as I say, I'll come and see to the 
child for you, and welcome." 

"Thank yon . . . kindly," said Silas, hesitating 
a little. "I'll be glad if you'll tell me things. But," 
he added, uneasily, leaning forward to look at Baby with 
some jealousy, as she was resting her head backward 
against Dolly's arm, and eyeing him contentedly from a 
distance — "But I want to do things for it myself, else it 



208 SILAS MARNER 

may get fond o' somebody else, and not fond o' me. 
I've been used to fending for myself in the house — I can 
learn, I can learn." 

*'Eli, to be sure," said Dolly, gently. "I've seen 
men as are wonderful handy wi' children. The men are 
awk'ard and contrairy mostly, God help 'em — but when 
the drink's out of 'em, they aren't unsensible, though 
they're bad for leeching and bandaging — so fiery and 
unpatient. You see this goes first, next the skin," pro- 
ceeded Dolly, taking up the little shirt, and putting it 
on. 

**Yes," said Marner, docilely, bringing his eyes very 
close, that they might be initiated in the mysteries; 
whereupon Baby seized his head with both her small 
arms, and put her lips against his face with purring 
noises. 

"See there," said Dolly, with a woman's tender tact, 
"she's fondest o' you. She wants to go o' your lap, I'll 
be bound. Go, then: take her, Master Marner; you 
can put the things on, and then you can say as you've 
done for her from the first of her coming to you." 

Marner took her on his lap, trembling with an emo- 
tion mysterious to himself, at something unknown 
dawning on his life. Thought and feeling were so con- 
fused within him, that if he had tried to give them 
utterance, he could only have said that the child was 
come instead of the gold — that the gold had turned into 
the child. He took the garments from Dolly, and put 
them on under her teaching ; interruiDted, of course, by 
Baby's gymnastics. 

"There, then! why, you take to it quite easy. Master 
Marner," said Dolly; "but what shall you do when 



SILAS MARNER • 209 

you're forced to sit in your loom? For she'll get busier 
and mischievouser every day — she will, bless her. It's 
lucky as you've got that high hearth i'stead of a grate, 
for that keeps the fire more out of her reach : bat if 
you've got anything as can be split or broke, or as is fit to 
cut her fingers off, she'll be at it — and it is but right 
you should know." 

Silas meditated a little while in some perplexity. "I'll 
tie her to the leg o' the loom," he said at last — *'tie her 
with a good long strip o' something." 

**Well, mayhap that'll do, as it's a little gell, for 
they're easier persuaded to sit i' one place nor the lads. 
I know what the lads are; for I've had four — four I've 
had, God knows — and if you was to take and tie 'em up, 
they'd make a fighting and a crying as if you was ring- 
ing the pigs. But I'll bring you my little chair, and 
some bits o' red rag and things for her to play wi' ; an' 
she'll sit and chatter to 'em as if they was alive. Eh, if 
it wasn't a sin to the lads to wish 'em made different, 
bless 'em, I should ha' been glad for one of 'em to be a 
little gell ; and to think as I could ha' taught her to 
scour, and mend, and the knitting, and everything. But 
I can teach 'em this little un, Master Marner, when she 
gets old enough." 

'*But she'll be my little un," said Marner, rather 
hastily. *'She'll be nobody else's." 

**No, to be sure; you'll have a right to her, if you're 
a father to her, and bring her up according. But,'* 
added Dolly, coming to a point which she had deter- 
mined beforehand to touch upon, *'you must bring her 
up like christened folks's children, and take her to 
church, and let her learn her catechise, as my little 



^10 SILAS MARNER 

Aaron can say off — the 'I believe,' and everything, and 
*hurt nobody by word or deed,' — as well as if he was 
the clerk. That's what you must do. Master Marner, if 
you'd do the right thing by the orphin child." 

Marner 's pale face flushed suddenly under a new 
anxiety. His mind was too busy trying to give some 
definite bearing to Dolly's words for him to think of 
■answering her. 

"And it's my belief," she went on, "as the poor little 
creature has never been christened, and it's nothing but 
right as the parson should be spoke to ; and if you was 
noways unwilling, I'd talk to Mr. Macey about it this 
Tery day. For if the child ever went anyways wrong, 
and you hadn't done your part by it. Master Marner — 
'noculation, and everything to save it from harm — it 
'ud be a thorn i' your bed for ever o' this side the grave ; 
and I can't think as it 'ud be easy lying down for any- 
"body when they'd got to another world, if they hadn't 
•done their part by the helpless children as come wi'out 
their own asking." 

Dolly herself was disposed to be silent for some time 
now, for she had spoken from the depths of her own 
fiimple belief, and was much concerned to know whether 
her words would produce the desired effect on Silas. 
He was puzzled and anxious, for Dolly's word "chris- 
tened" conveyed no distinct meaning to him. He had 
only heard of baptism, and had only seen the baptism of 
grown-up men and women. 

"What is it as you mean by 'christened'?" he said at 
last, timidly. "Won't folks be good to her without it?" 

"Deal-, dear! Master Marner," said Dolly, with 
gentle distress and compassion. "Had you never no 



SILAS MARNER 211 

father uor mother as taught you to say your prayers, and 
as there's good words and good things to keep us from 
harm?" 

"Yes," said Silas, in a low voice; "I know a deal 
about that — used to, used to. But your ways are 
different: my country was a good way off." He paused 
a few moments, and then added, more decidedly, '*But 
I want to do everything as can be done for the child. 
And whatever's right for it i' this country, and you 
think 'ull do it good, I'll act according, if you'll tell 
me." 

"Well, then. Master Mai-ner," said Dolly, inwardly 
rejoiced, "I'll ask Mr. Macey to speak to the parson 
about it ; and you must fix on a name for it, because it 
must have a name giv' it when it's christened." 

"My mother's name was Hephzibah," said Silas, 
"and my little sister was named after her." 

"Eh, that's a hard name," said Dolly. "I partly 
think it isn't a christened name." 

"It's a Bible name," said Silas, old ideas recurring. 

"Then I've no call to speak again' it," said Dolly, 
rather startled by Silas's knowledge on this head; "but 
you see I'm no scholard, and I'm slow at catching the 
words. My husband says I'm allays like as if I waa 
putting the haft for the handle — that's what he says — • 
for he's very sharp, God help him. But it was awk'ard 
calling your little sister by such a hard name, when 
you'd got nothing big to say, like — wasn't it, Master 
Marner?" 

"We called her Eppie," said Silas. 

"Well, if it was noways wrong to shorten the name, it 
'ud be a deal handier. And so I'll go now. Master 



212 SILAS MARNEK 

Marner, and I'll speak about the christening afore dark; 
and I wish yoii the best o' luck, and it's my belief as 
it'll come to you, if you do what's right by the orphin 
child; — and there's the 'noculation to be seen to; and as 
to washing its bits o' things, you need look to nobody 
but me, for I can do 'em wi' one hand when I've got my 
suds about. Eh, the blessed angil! You'll let me 
bring my Aaron one o' these days, and he'll show her 
his little cart as his father's made for him, and the 
black-and-white pup as he's got a-rearing." 

Baby was christened, the rector deciding that a double 
baptism was the lesser risk to incur; and on this occa- 
sion Silas, making himself as clean and tidy as he could, 
appeared for the first time within the church, and 
shared in the observances held sacred by his neighbours. 
He was quite unable, by means of anything he heard or 
saw, to identify the Raveloe religion with his old faith ; 
if he could at any time in his previous life have done so, 
it must have been by the aid of a strong feeling ready to 
vibrate with sympathy, rather than by a comparison of 
phrases and ideas : and now for long years that feeling 
had been dormant. He had no distinct idea about the 
baptism and the church-going, except that Dolly had 
said it was for the good of the child; and in this way, 
as the weeks gi*ew to months, the child created fresh 
and fresh links between his life and the lives from 
which he had hitherto shrunk continually into nar- 
rower isolation. Unlike the gold which needed noth- 
ing, and must be worshipped in close-locked solitude — 
which was hidden away from the daylight, was deaf to 
the song of birds, and started to no human tones — 
Eppie was a creature of endless claims and ever-growing 



SILAS MARNER 21? 

desires, seeking and loving sunshine, and living sounds, 
and living movements; making trial of everything, with 
trust in new joy, and stirring the human kindness in all 
eyes that looked on her. The gold had kept his 
thoughts in an ever -repeated cu-cle, leading to nothing 
beyond itself; but Eppie was an object compacted of 
changes and hopes that forced his thoughts onward, and 
carried them far away from their old eager pacing 
towards the same blank limit — carried them away to 
the new things that would come with the coming years, 
when Eppie would have learned to understand how her 
father Silas cared for her; and made him look for 
images of that time in the ties and charities that bound 
together the families of his neighbours. The gold had 
asked that he should sit weaving longer and longer, 
deafened and blinded more and more to all things 
except the monotony of his loom and the repetition of 
his web; but Eppie called him away from his weaving, 
and made him think all its pauses a holiday, reawaken- 
ing his senses ^vith her fresh life, even to the old 
winter-flies that came crawling forth in the early spring 
sunshine, and warming him into joy because she had joy. 
And when the sunshine grew strong and lasting, so 
that the buttercups were thick in the meadows, Silas 
might be seen in the sunny mid-day, or in the late after- 
noon when the shadows were lengthening under the 
hedgerows, strolling out with uncovered head to carry 
Eppie beyond the Stone-pits to where the flowers grew, 
till they reached some favourite bank where he could sit 
down, while Eppie toddled to pluck the flowers, and 
make remarks to the winged things that murmured 
happily above the bright petals, calling "Dad-dad's'* 



^14 SILAS MARNER 

attention continually by bringing him the flowers. 
Then she would turn her ear to some sudden bird-note, 
and Silas learned to please her by making signs of 
hushed stillness, that they might listen for the note to 
•come again : so that when it came, she set up her small 
back and laughed with gurgling triumph. Sitting on 
the banks in this way, Silas began to look for the once 
familiar herbs again; and as the leaves, with their un- 
changed outline and markings, lay on his palm, there 
was a sense of crowding remembrances from which he 
turned away timidly, taking refuge in Eppie's little 
world, that lay lightly on his enfeebled spirit. 

As the child's mind waa gi-owing into knowledge, his 
mind was growing into memory : as her life unfolded, 
his soul, long stupefied in a cold narrow prison, was 
unfolding too, and trembling gradually into full con- 
sciousness. 

It was an influence which must gather force with 
«very new year: the tones that stirred Silas's heart grew 
articulate, and called for more distinct answers ; shapes 
and sounds grew clearer for Eppie's eyes and ears, and 
there was more that "Dad-dad" was imperatively 
required to notice and account for. Also, by the time 
Eppie was three years old, she developed a fine capacity 
for mischief, and for devising ingenious ways of being 
troublesome, which found much exercise, not only for 
Silas's patience, but for his watchfulness and penetra- 
tion. Sorely was poor Silas puzzled on such occasions 
by the incompatible demands of love. Dolly Winthrop 
told him that punishment was good for Eppie, and that, 
as for rearing a child without making it tingle a little in 
soft and safe places now and then, it was not to be done. 



SILAS MARNER 215 

"To be sure, there's another thing you might do, 
Master Marner," added Dolly, meditatively: "you 
might shut her up once i' the coal-hole. That was 
what I did wi' Aaron; for I was that silly wi' the 
youngest lad, as I could never bear to smack him. Not 
as I could find i' my heart to let him stay i' the coal- 
hole more nor a minute, but it was enough to colly ^ him 
all over, so as he must be new washed and dressed, and 
it was as good as a rod to him — that was. But I put it 
upo' your conscience. Master Marner, as there's one of 
'em you must choose — ayther smacking or the coal-hole 
— else she'll get so masterful, there'll be no holding 
her." 

Silas was impressed with the melancholy truth of this 
last remark ; but his force of mind failed before the only 
two penal methods open to him, not only because it was 
painful to him to hurt Eppie, but because he trembled 
at a moment's contention with her, lest she should love 
him the less for it. Let even an affectionate Goliath 
get himself tied to a small tender thing, dreading to 
hurt it by pulling, and dreading still more to snap the 
cord, and which of the two, pray, will be master? It 
was clear that Eppie, with her short toddling steps, 
must lead father Silas a pretty dance on any fine morn- 
ing when circumstances favoured mischief. 

For example. He had wisely chosen a broad strip of 
linen as a means of fastening her to his loom when he 
was busy : it made a broad belt round her waist, and was 
long enough to allow of her reaching the truckle-bed 
and sitting down on it, but not long enough for her to 
attempt any dangerous climbing. One bright summer's 

^ To begrime. 



216 SILAS MARNER 

morning Silas had. been more engrossed than usual in 
"setting up" a new piece of work, an occasion on which 
his scissors were in requisition. These scissors, owing 
to an especial warning of Dolly's, had been kept care- 
fully out of Eppie's reach ; but the click of them had 
had a peculiar attraction for her ear, and watching the 
results of that click, she had derived the philosophic 
lesson that the same cause would produce the same 
effect. Silas had seated himself in his loom, and the 
noise of weaving had begun ; but he had left his scissors 
on a ledge which Eppie's arm was long enough to 
reach; and now, like a small mouse, watching her 
opportunity, she stole quietly from her corner, secured 
the scissors, and toddled to the bed again, setting up her 
back as a mode of concealing the fact. She had a dis- 
tinct intention as to the use of the scissors ; and having 
cut the linen strip in a jagged but effectual manner, in 
two moments she had run out at the open door where 
the sunshine was inviting her, while poor Silas believed 
her to be a better child than usual. It was not until he 
happened to need his scissors that the terrible fact burst 
upon him : Eppie had run out by herself — ^had perhaps 
fallen into the Stone-pit. Silas, shaken by the worst 
fear that could have befallen him, rushed out, calling 
**^ppie!" and ran eagerly about the unenclosed space, 
exploring the dry cavities into which she might have 
fallen, and then gazing with questioning dread at the 
smooth red surface of the water. The cold drops stood 
on his brow. How long had she been out? There was 
one hope — that she had crept through the stile and got 
into the fields, where he habitually took her to stroll. 
But the grass was high in the meadow, and there was no 



SILAS MARNER 217 

descrying her, if she were there, except by a close search 
that would be a trespass on Mr. Osgood's crop. Still, 
that misdemeanor must be committed ; and poor Silas, 
after peering all round the hedgerows, traversed the 
grass, beginning with perturbed vision to see Eppie 
behind every group of red sorrel, and to see her moving 
always farther off as he approached. The meadow was 
searched in vain; and he got over the stile into the next 
field, looking with dying hope towards a small pond 
which was now reduced to its summer shallowness, so as 
to leave a wide margin of good adhesive mud. Here, 
however, sat Eppie, discoursing cheerfully to her own 
small boot, which she was using as a bucket to convey 
the water into a deep hoof -mark, while her little naked 
foot was planted comfortably on a cushion of olive-green 
mud. A red-headed calf was observing her with 
alarmed doubt through the opposite hedge. 

Here was clearly a case of aberration in a christened 
child which demanded severe treatment; but Silas, over- 
come with convulsive joy at finding his treasure again, 
could do nothing but snatch her up, and cover her with 
half -sobbing kisses. It was not until he had carried her 
home, and had begun to think of the necessary washing, 
that he recollected the need that he should punish 
Eppie, and "make her remember." The idea that 
she might run away again and come to harm, gave 
him unusual resolution, and for the first time he de- 
termined to try the coal-hole — a small closet near the 
hearth. 

"Naughty, naughty Eppie," he suddenly began, 
holding her on his knee, and pointing to her muddy 
feet and clothes — "naughty to cut with the scissors 



218 SILAS MARNER 

and run away. Eppie must go into the coal-hole for 
being naughty. Daddy must put her in the coal- 
hole." 

He half -expected that this would be shock enough, 
and that Eppie would begin to cry. But instead of 
that, she began to shake herself on his knee, as if the 
proposition opened a pleasing novelty. Seeing that he 
must proceed to extremities, he put her into the coal- 
hole, and held the door closed, with a trembling sense 
that he was using a strong measure. For a moment 
there was silence, but then came a little cry, "Opy, 
opy!" and Silas let her out again, saying, *'N"ow Eppie 
'nil never be naughty again, else she must go into the 
coal-hole — a black naughty place." 

The weaving must stand still a long while this morn- 
ing, for now Eppie must be washed, and have clean 
clothes on ; but it was to be hoped that this punishment 
would have a lasting effect, and save time in future — 
though, perhaps, it would have been better if Eppie had 
cried more. 

In half an hour she was clean again, and Silas having 
turned his back to see what he could do with the linen 
band, threw it down again, with the reflection that 
Eppie would be good without fastening for the rest of 
the morning. He turned round again, and was going 
to place her in her little chair near the loom, when she 
peeped out at him with black face and hands again, 
and said, ''Eppie in de toal-hole!" 

This total failure of the coal-hole discipline shook 
Silas's belief in the efficacy of punishment. "She'd 
take it all for fun," he observed to Dolly, "if I didn't 
hurt her, and that I can't do, Mrs. Winthrop. If she 



SILAS MARNER 219 

makes me a bit o' trouble, I can bear it. And she's got 
no tricks but what she'll grow out of." 

'*Well, that's partly true, Master Marner," said 
Dolly, sympathetically; "and if you can't bring your 
mind to frighten her off touching things, you must da 
what you can to keep 'em out of her way. That's what 
I do wi' the pups as the lads are allays a -rearing. They 
luill worry and gnaw — worry and gnaw they will, if it 
was one's Sunday cap as hung anywhere so they could 
di-ag it. They know no difference, God help 'em : ifs 
the pushing o' the teeth as sets 'em on, that's what it 
is." 

So Eppie was reared without punishment, the burden 
of her misdeeds being borne vicariously by father Silas. 
The stone hut was made a soft nest for her, lined with 
downy patience : and also in the world that lay beyond 
tlie stone hut she knew nothing of frowns and denials. 

Notwithstanding the difficulty of carrying her and his 
yarn or linen at the same time, Silas took her with him 
in most of his journeys to the farm-houses, unwilling 
to leave her behind at Dolly Winthrop's, who was always 
ready to take care of her ; and little curly-headed Eppie, 
the weaver's child, became an object of interest at 
several outlying homesteads, as well as in the village. 
Hitherto he had been treated very much as if he had 
been a useful gnome or brownie — a queer and unac- 
countable creature, who must necessmly be looked at 
with wondering cui'iosity and repulsion, and with whom 
one would be glad to make all gi'eetings and bargains as 
brief as possible, but who must be dealt with in a 
propitiatory way, and occasionally have a present of pork 
or garden stuff to carry home with him, seeing that 



^20 SILAS MARNER 

without him there was no getting the yarn woven. But 
now Silas met with open smiling faces and cheerful 
questioning, as a person whose satisfaction and diffi- 
culties could be understood. Everywhere he must sit a 
little and talk about the child, and words of interest 
were always ready for him: "Ah, Master Marner, you'll 
be lucky if she takes the measles soon and easy!" — or, 
**Why, there isn't many lone men 'ud ha' been wishing 
to take up with a little un like that : but I reckon the 
weaving makes you handier than men as do out-door 
work — ^you're partly as handy as a woman, for weaving 
comes next to spinning." Elderly masters and mis- 
tresses, seated observantly in large kitchen arm-chairs, 
shook their heads over the difficulties attendant on rear- 
ing children, felt Eppie's round arms and legs, and pro- 
nounced them remarkably firm, and told Silas that, if 
she turned out well (which, however, there was no tell- 
ing), it would be a fine thing for him to have a steady 
lass to do for him when he got helpless. Servant 
maidens were fond of carrying her out to look at the 
hens and chickens, or to see if any cherries could be 
shaken down in the orchard ; and the small boys and 
girls approached her slowly, with cautious movement and 
steady gaze, like little dogs face to face with one of their 
own kind, till attraction had reached the point at which 
the soft lips were put out for a kiss. No child was 
afraid of approaching Silas when Eppie was near him: 
there was no repulsion around him now, either for 
young or old; for the little child had come to link him 
once more with the whole world. There was love 
between him and the child that blent them into one, 
and there was love between the cbi^r] and the world — 



SILAS MARNER 221 

from men and women with parental looks and tones, to 
the red lady- birds and the round pebbles. 

Silas began now to think of Ravel oe life entirely in 
relation to Eppie : she must have everything that was 
good in Raveloe; and he listened docilely, that he 
might come to understand better what this life was, 
from which, for fifteen years, he had stood aloof as from 
a strange thing, wherewith he could have no com- 
munion : as some man who has a precious plant to which 
he would give a nurturing home in a new soil, thinks of 
the rain, and the sunshine, and all influences, in rela- 
tion to his nursling, and asks industriously for all 
knowledge that will help him to satisfy the wants of the 
searching roots, or to guard leaf and bud from invading 
harm. The disposition to hoard had been utterly 
crushed at the very first by the loss of his long-stored 
gold: the coins he earned afterwards seemed as 
irrelevant as stones brought to complete a house sud- 
denly buried by an earthquake; the sense of bereave- 
ment was too heavy upon him for the old thrill of 
satisfaction to arise again at the touch of the newly 
earned coin. And now something had come to replace 
his hoard which gave a growing purpose to the earn- 
ings, dra^ving his hope and joy continually onward 
beyond the money. 

In old days there were angels who came and took men 
by the hand and led them away from the city of 
destruction. We see no white-winged angels now. But 
yet men are led away from threatening destruction: 
a hand is put into theirs, which leads them forth 
gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look 
no more backward; and the hand may be a little child's. 



CHAPTER XV 

Theee was one person, as you will believe, who 
watched with keener though more hidden interest than 
any other, the prosperous growth of Eppie under the 
weaver's care. He dared not do anything that would 
imply a stronger interest in a poor man's adopted child 
than could be expected from the kindliness of the young 
Squire, when a chance meeting suggested a little present 
to a simple old fellow whom others noticed with good- 
will; but he told himself that the time would come 
when he might do something towards furthering the 
welfare of his daughter without incurring suspicion. 
Was he very uneasy in the meantime at his inability to 
give his daughter her birthright? I cannot say that he 
was. The child was being taken care of, and would 
very likely be happy, as people in humble stations 
often were — happier, perhaps, than those brought up in 
luxury. 

That famous ring that pricked its owner when he for- 
got duty and followed desire — I wonder if it pricked 
very hard when he set out on the chase, or whether it 
pricked but lightly then, and only pierced to the quick 
when the chase had long been ended, and hope, folding 
her wings, looked backward and became regret? 

Godfrey Cass's cheek and eye were brighter than ever 
now. He was so undivided in his aims, that he seemed 
like a man of firmness. No Dunsey had come back: 

223 



SILAS MARNER 223 

people had made up their minds that he was gone for a 
soldier, or gone "out of the country," and no one cared 
to be specific in their inquiries on a subject delicate to a 
respectable family. Godfrey had ceased to see the 
shadow of Dunsey across his path ; and the path now 
lay straight forward to the accomplishment of liis best, 
longest-cherished wishes. Everybody said Mr. Godfrey 
had taken the right turn ; and it was pretty clear what 
would be the end of things, for there were not many 
days in the week that he was not seen riding to the 
Warrens. Godfrey himself, when he was asked jocosely 
if the day had been fixed, smiled with the pleasant con- 
sciousness of a lover who could say *'yes," if he liked. 
He felt a reformed man, delivered from temptation ; and 
the vision of his future life seemed to him as a promised 
land for which he had no cause to fight. He saw him- 
self with all his happiness centred on his own hearth, 
while Nancy would smile on him as he played with the 
children. 

And that other child, not on the hearth — he would 
not forget it ; he would see that it was well provided for. 
That was a father's duty. 



PART II 



CHAPTEE XVI 

It was a bright autumn Sunday, sixteen years after 
Silas Marner had found his new treasure on the hearth. 
The bells of the old Raveloe church were ringing the 
cheerful peal that told that the morning service was 
ended; and out of the arched door -way in the tower 
came slowly, retaj'ded by friendly gi'eetings and ques- 
tions, the richer parishioners who had chosen this 
bright Sunday morning as eligible for church-going. It 
was the rural fashion of that time for the more impor- 
tant members of the congregation to depart first, while 
their humbler neighbours waited and looked on, strok- 
ing their bent heads or dropping their curtsies to any 
large ratepayer who turned to notice them. 

Foremost among these advancing groups of well-clad 
people, there are some whom we shall recognise, in spite 
of Time, who has laid his hand on them all. The tall 
blond man of forty is not much changed in features 
from the Godfrey Cass of six-and-twenty : he is only 
fuller in flesh, and has only lost the indefinable look of 
youth — a loss which is marked even when the eye is 
undulled and the wi'inkles are not yet come. Perhaps 
the pretty woman, not much younger than he, who is 
leaning on his arm, is more changed than her husband: 

324 



SILAS MARNER 225 

the lovely bloom that used to be always on her cheek 
now comes but fitfully, with the fresh morning air or 
with some strong surprise ; yet to all who love human 
faces best for what they tell of human experience, 
Nancy's beauty has a heightened interest. Often the 
soul is ripened into fuller goodness while age has spread 
an ugly film, so that mere glances can never divine the 
preciousness of the fruit. But the years have not been 
so cruel to Nancy. The firm yet placid mouth, the 
clear veracious glance of the brown eyes, speak now of 
a nature that has been tested and has kept its highest 
qualities ; and even the costume, with its dainty neat- 
ness and purity, has more significance now the coquet- 
ries of youth can have nothing to do w4th it. 

Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey Cass (any higher title has died 
away from Eaveloe lips since the old Squire was gathered 
to his fathers and his inheritance was divided) have 
turned round to look for the tall aged man and the 
plainly dressed woman who are a little behind — Nancy 
having observed that they must wait for "father and 
Priscilla" — and now they all turn into a narrower path 
leading across the churchyard to a small gate opposite 
the Red House. \Ye will not follow them now; for 
may there not be some others in this departing congi'e 
gation whom we should like to see again — some of those 
who are not likely to be handsomely clad, and whom we 
may not recognise so easily as the master and mistress 
of the Red House? 

But it is impossible to mistake Silas Marnesr-. His 
large brown eyes seem to have gathered a longer vision, 
afl is the way with eyes that have been short-sighted in 
early life, and they have a less vague, a more answering 



226 SILAS MARNER 

gaze; but in everything else one sees signs of a frame 
much enfeebled by the lapse of the sixteen years. The 
weaver's bent shoulders and white hair give him almost 
the look of advanced age, though he is not more than 
five-and-fif ty ; but there is the fi-eshest blossom of youth 
close by his side — a blond dimpled girl of eighteen, who 
has vainly tried to chastise her curly auburn hair into 
smoothness under her brown bonnet : the hair ripples as 
obstinately as a brooklet under the March breeze, and 
the little ringlets burst away from the restraining comb 
behind and show themselves below the bonnet crown. 
Eppie cannot help being rather vexed about her hau*, 
for there is no other girl in Raveloe who has hair at all 
like it, and she thinks hair ought to be smooth. She 
does not like to be blameworthy even in small things : 
you see how neatly her prayer-book is folded in her 
spotted handkerchief. 

', That good-looking young fellow, in a new fustian 
suit, who walks behind her, is not quite sure upon the 
question of hair in the abstract, when Eppie puts it to 
him, and thinks that perhaps straight hair is the best in 
general, but he doesn't want Eppie's hair to be differ- 
ent. She surely divines that there is some one behind 
her who is thinking about her very pai'ticularly, and 
mustering courage to come to her side as soon as they 
are out in the lane, else why should she look rather shy, 
and take care not to turn away her head from her father 
Silas, to whom she keeps murmuring little sentences as 
to who was at church, and who was not at church, and 
how pretty the red mountain-ash is over the Eectory 
wall! 

*'I wish we had a little garden, father, with double 



SILAS MARNER 227 

daisies in it, like Mrs. Winthrop's," said Eppie, when 
they were out in the lane; "only they say it 'ud take a 
deal of digging and bringing fresh soil — and you 
couldn't do that, could you, father? Anyhow, I 
shouldn't like you to do it, for it 'ud be too hard work 
for you." 

*'Yes, I could do it, child, if you want a bit o' 
garden : these long evenings, I could work at taking in 
a little bit o' the waste, just enough for a root or two 
o' flowers for you; and again, i' the morning, I could 
have a turn wi' the spade before I sat down to the 
loom. Why didn't you tell me before as you wanted a 
bit o' garden?" 

"/ can dig it for you, Master Marner," said the 
young man in fustian, who was now by Eppie 's side, 
entering into the conversation without the trouble of 
formalities. "It'll be play to me after I've done my 
day's work, or any odd bits o' time when the work's 
slack. And I'll bring you some soil from Mr. Cass's 
garden — he'll let me, and willing." 

"Eh, Aaron, my lad, are you there?" said Silas; "I 
wasn't aware of you; for when Eppie's talking o* 
things, I see nothing but what she's a-saying. Well, if 
you could help me witli the digging, we might get her a 
bit o' garden all the sooner." 

"Then, if you think well and good," said Aai'on, 
"I'll come to the Stone-pits this afternoon, and we'll 
settle what land's to be taken in, and I'll get up an hour 
earlier i' the morning, and begin on it." 

"But not if you don't promise me not to work at the 
hard digging, father," said Eppie. "Fori shouldn't 
ha' said anything about it," she added, half -bashfully, 



228 SILAS MARNER 

half -roguishly, "only Mrs. Winthrop said as Aaron 'ud 
be so good, and " 

"And yon might ha' known it without her telling 
you," said Aaron. "And Master Marner knows too, I 
hope, as I'm able and willing to do a turn o' work for 
him, and he won't do me the unkindness to anyways 
take it out o' my hands." 

"There, now, father, you won't work in it till it's all 
easy," said Eppie, "and you and me can mark out the 
beds, and make holes and plant the roots. It'll be a 
deal livelier at the Stone-pits when we've got some 
flowers, for I always think the flowers can see us, and 
know what we're talking about. And I'll have a bit of 
rosemary, and bergamot, and thyme, because they're so 
sweet-smelling; but there's no lavender only in the 
gentlefolks' gardens, I think." 

"That's no reason why you shouldn't have some," 
said Aaron, "for I can bring you slips of anything; I'm 
forced to cut no end of 'em when I'm gardening, and I 
throw 'em away mostly. There's a big bed o' lavender 
at the Red House; the missus is very fond of it." 

"Well," said Silas, gi'avely, "so as you don't make 
free for us, or ask for anything as is worth much at the 
Red House-: for Mr. Cass's been so good to us, and 
built us up the new end o' the cottage, and given us 
beds and things, as I couldn't abide to be imposin' for 
garden-stuff or anything else. " 

"No, no, there's no imposin'," said Aaron; "there's 
never a garden in all the parish but what there's endless 
waste in it for want o' somebody as could use every- 
thing up. It's what I think to myself sometimes, as 
there need nobody run short o' victuals if the land was 



SILAS MARNER 229 

made the most on, and there was never a morsel but 
what could find its way to a mouth. It sets one think- 
ing o' that — gardening does. But I must go back now, 
else mother 'ull be in trouble as I aren't there." 

* 'Bring her with you this afternoon, Aaron," said 
Eppie; "I shouldn't like to fix about the garden, and 
her not know everything from the first — should you^ 
father?" 

"Ay, bring her if you can, Aaron," said Silas; 
"she's sure to have a word to say as '11 help us to set 
things on their right end." 

Aaron turned back up the village, while Silas and 
Eppie went on up the lonely sheltered lane. 

"0 daddy!" she began, Avhen they were in privacy, 
clasping and squeezing Silas's arm, and skipping round 
to give him an energetic kiss. "My little old daddy! 
I'm so glad. I don't think I shall want anything else 
when we've got a little garden; and I knew Aaron 
would dig it for us," she went on v/ith roguish triumph 
— "I knew that very well." 

"You're a deep little puss, you are," said Silas, with 
the mild passive happiness of love-crowned age in his 
face; "but you'll make yourself fine and beholden to 
Aaron." 

"0 no, I shan't," said Eppie, laughing and frisking; 
"he likes it." 

"Come, come, let me carry your prayer-book, else 
you'll be dropping it, jumping i' that way." 

Eppie was now aware that her behaviour was under 
observation, but it was only the observation of a friendly 
donkey, browsing with a log fastened to his foot — a 
meek donkey, not scornfully critical of human triviali- 



'230 SILAS MARKER 

ties, but thankful to share in them, if possible, by get- 
ting his nose scratched; and Eppie did not fail to 
gratify him with her usual notice, tliough it waa 
attended with the inconvenience of his following them, 
painfully, up to the very door of theii' home. 

But the sound of a sharp bark inside, as Eppie put 
the key in the door, modified the donkey's views, and he 
limped away again without bidding. The sharp bark 
was the sign of an excited welcome that was awaiting 
them from a knowing brown terrier, who, after dancing 
at their legs in a hysterical manner, rushed with a 
worrying noise at a tortoise-shell kitten under the loom, 
and then rushed back with a sharp bark again, as much 
aa to say, "I have done my duty by this feeble creature, 
you perceive;*' while the lady-mother of the kitten sat 
sunning her white bosom in the window, and looked 
round with a sleepy air of expecting caresses, though 
she was not going to take any trouble for them. 

The presence of this happy animal life was not the 
only change which had come over the interior of the 
stone cottage. There was no bed now in the living- 
room, and the small space was well filled with decent 
furniture, all bright and clean enough to satisfy Dolly 
Wintlirop's eye. The oaken table and three-cornered 
oaken chair were hardly what was likely to be seen in so 
poor a cottage : they had come, with the beds and other 
things, from the Ked House; for Mr. Godfrey Cass, as 
every one said in the village, did very kindly by the 
weaver ; and it was nothing but right a man should be 
looked on and helped by those who could afford it, when 
he had brought up an orphan child, and been father 
and mother to her — and had lost his money too, so as he 



SILAS MARNER 231 

had nothing but what he worked for week by week, and 
when the weaving was going down too — for there was 
less and less flax spun — and Master Marner was none so 
young. Nobody was jealous of the weaver, for he was 
regarded as an exceptional person, whose claims on 
neighbourly help were not to be matched in Raveloe. 
Any superstition that remained concerning him had 
taken an entii'ely new colour ; and Mr. Macey, now^ a 
very feeble old man of fourscore and six, never seen 
except in his chimney-corner or sitting in the sunshine 
at his door -sill, was of opinion that when a man had 
done what Silas had done by an orphan child, it was a 
sign that his money would come to light again, or least- 
wise that the robber would be made to answer for it — 
for, as Mr. Macey observed of himself, his faculties were 
as strong as ever. 

Silas sat down now and watched Eppie with a satisfied 
gaze as she spread the clean cloth, and set on it the 
potato-pie, warmed up slowly in a safe Sunday fashion, 
by being put into a dry pot over a slowly-dying fire, as 
the best substitute for an oven. For Silas would not 
consent to have a grate and oven added to his conveni- 
ences : he loved the old brick hearth as he had loved his 
brown pot — and was it not there when he had found 
Eppie? The gods of the hearth exist for us still ; and 
let all new faith be tolerant of that fetishism, lest it 
bruise its own roots. 

Silas ate his dinner more silently than usual, soon lay- 
ing down his knife and fork, and watching half -abstract- 
edly Eppie 's play with Snap and the cat, by which her 
own dining was made rather a lengthy business. Yet it 
was a sight that might well arrest wandering thoughts : 



232 SILAS MARNER 

Eppie, with the rippling radiance of her hair and the 
whiteness of her rounded chin and throat set off by the 
dai'k-bhie cotton gown, laughing merrily as the kitten 
held on with her four claws to one shoulder, like a 
design for a jug -handle, while Snap on the right hand 
and Puss on the other put up their paws towards a 
morsel which she held out of the reach of both — Snap 
occasionally desisting in order to remonstrate with the 
cat by a cogent worrying growl on the greediness and 
futility of her conduct; till Eppie relented, caressed 
them both, and divided the morsel between them. 

But at last Eppie, glancing at the clock, checked the 
play, and said, "0 daddy, you're wanting to go into the 
sunshine to smoke your pipe. But I must clear away 
first, so as the house may be tidy when godmother 
comes. I'll make haste — I won't be long." 

Silas had taken to smoking a pipe daily during the 
last two years, having been strongly urged to it by the 
sages of Eaveloe, as a practice "good for the fits;" and 
this advice was sanctioned by Dr. Kimble, on the 
ground that it was as well to try what could ao no harm 
— a principle which was made to answer for a great deal 
of work in that gentleman's medical practice. Silas did 
not highly enjoy smoking, and often wondered how his 
neighbours could be so fond of it ; but a humble sort of 
acquiescence in what was held to be good, had become a 
strong habit of that new self which had been developed 
in him since he had found Eppie on his hearth : it had 
been the only clew his bewildered mind could hold by in 
cherishing this young life that had been sent to him out 
of the darkness into which his gold had departed. By 
seeking what was needful for Eppie, by sharing the 



SILAS MARNER 233 

effect that everything produced on her, he had himself 
come to appropriate the forms of custom and belief 
which were the mould of Raveloe life; and as, with re- 
awakening sensibilities, memory also reawakened, he had 
begun to ponder over the elements of his old faith, and 
blend them with his new impressions, till he recovered a 
consciousness of unity between his past and present. 
The sense of presiding goodness and the human trust 
which come with all pure peace and joy, had given him 
a dim impression that there had been some error, some 
mistake, which had thrown that dark shadow over the 
days of his best years ; and as it grew more and more 
easy to him to open his mind to Dolly Winthrop, he 
gradually communicated to her all he could describe of 
his early life. The communication was necessarily a 
slow and difficult process, for Silas's meagre power of 
explanation was not aided by any readiness of interpreta- 
tion in Dolly, whose narrow outward experience gave her 
no key to strange customs, and made every novelty a 
source of wonder that arrested them at every step of the 
narrative. It was only by fragments, and at intervals 
which left Dolly time to revolve what she had heard till 
it acquired some familiarity for her, that Silas at last 
arrived at the climax of the sad story — the drawing of 
lots, and its false testimony concerning him; and this 
had to be repeated in several interviews, under new 
questions on her part as to the nature of this plan for 
detecting the guilty and clearing the innocent. 

"And yourn's the same Bible, you're sure o' that. 
Master Marner — the Bible as you brought wi' you from 
that country — it's the same as what they've got at 
church, and what Eppie's a-learning to read in?" 



234 SILAS MARNER 

*'Yes," said Silas, "every bit the same; and there's 
drawing o' lots in the Bible, mind you," he added in a 
lower tone. 

**0 dear, dear," said Dolly in a grieved voice, as if 
she were hearing an unfavorable report of a sick man's 
case. She was silent for some minutes; at last she 
said — 

"There's wise folks, happen, as know how it all is; 
the parson knows, I'll be bound; but it takes big words 
to tell them things, and such as poor folks can't make 
much out on. I can never rightly know the meaning 
o' what I hear at church, only a bit here and there, but 
I know it's good words — I do. But what lies upo' your 
mind — it's this. Master Marner: as, if Them above had 
done the right thing by you. They'd never ha' let you 
be turned out for a wicked thief when you was inni- 
cent." 

"Ah!" said Silas, who had now come to understand 
Dolly's pliraseology, "that was what fell on me like as if 
it had been red-hot iron; because, you see, there was 
nobody as cared for me or clave to me above nor below. 
And him as I'd gone out and in wi' for ten year and 
more, since when we was lads and went halves — mine 
own familiar friend in whom I trusted, had lifted up 
his heel again' me, and worked to ruin me." 

"Eh, but he was a bad un — I can't think as there's 
another such," said Dolly. "But I'm o'ercome, Master 
Marner; I'm like as if I'd waked and didn't know 
whether it was night or morning. I feel somehow as 
sure as I do when I've laid something up, though I can't 
justly put my hand on it, as there was a rights in what 
happened to you, if one could but make it out; and 



SILAS MARNER 235 

you'd no call to lose heart as you did. But we'll talk 
on it again ; for sometimes things come into my head 
when I'm leeching or poulticing, or such, as I could 
never think on when I was sitting still." 

Dolly was too useful a woman not to have many 
opportunities of illumination of the kind she alluded to> 
and she was not long before she recurred to the subject. 

"Master Marner," she said, one day that she came to 
bring home Eppie's washing, "I've been sore puzzled 
for a good bit wi' that trouble o' yourn and the draw- 
ing o' lots; and it got twisted back'ards and for'ards, as 
I didn't know which end to lay hold on. But it come 
to me all clear like, that night when I was sitting up 
wi' poor Bessy Fawkes, as is dead and left her children 
behind, God help 'em — it come to me as clear as day- 
light; but whether I've got hold on it now, or can any- 
ways bring it to my tongue's end, that I don't know. 
For I've often a deal inside me as '11 never come out ; 
and for what you talk o' your folks in your old country 
niver sajdng prayers by heart nor saying 'em out of a 
book, they must be wonderful cliver; for if I didn't 
know *Our Father,' and little bits o' good words as I 
can carry out o' church wi' me, I might down o' my 
knees every night, but nothing could I say." 

"But you can mostly say something as I can make 
sense on, Mrs. Winthrop," said Silas. 

"Well, then, Master Marner, it come to me summat 
like this : I can make nothing o' the drawing o' lots 
and the answer coming wrong ; it 'ud mayhap take the 
parson to tell that, and he could only tell us i' big 
Words. But what come to me as clear as the daylight, 
it was when I was troubling over poor Bessy Fawkes, 



236 SILAS MARNER 

and it allays comes into my head when I'm sorry for 
folks, and feel as I can't do a power to help 'em, not 
if I was to get up i' the middle o' the night — it comes 
into my head as Them above has got a deal tenderer 
heart nor what I've got — for I can't be anyways better 
nor Them as made me ; and if anything looks hard to 
me, it's because there's things I don't know on; and for 
the matter o' that, there may be plenty o' things I don't 
know on, for it's little as I know — that it is. And so, 
while I was thinking o' that, you come into my mind, 

Master Marner, and it all come pouring in : if / felt i' 

my inside what was the right and just thing by you, and 
them as prayed and drawed the lots, all but that wicked 
un, if thei/''d ha' done the right thing by you if they 
could, isn't there Them as was at the making on us, and 
knows better and has a better will? And that's all as 
ever I can be sure on, and everything else is a big puzzle 
to me when I think on it. For there was the fever 
come and took off them as were full -gro wed, and left the 
helpless children; and there's the breaking o' limbs; 
and them as 'ud do right and be sober have to suffer by 
them as are contrairy — eh, there's trouble i' this world, 
and there's things as we can niver make out the rights 
on. And all as we've got to do is to trusten. Master 
Marner — to do the right thing as fur as we know, and 
to trusten.^ For if us as knows so little can see a bit o' 

^ A curiously tender and sympathetic tribute to the value 
of simple faith to come from one who could not follow the 
advice. One of the chief sources of George Eliot's greatness 
was her ability to appreciate at their real worth things 
which were alien to her temperament. She was not a woman 
of religious faith, yet she saw the full beauty and power and 
glory of it. 



SILAS MARKER 237 

good and rights, we may be sure as there's a good and a 
rights bigger nor what we can know — I feel it i ' my own 
inside as it must be so. And if you could but ha' gone 
on trustening, Master Marner, you wouldn't ha' run 
away from your fellow-creatures and been so lone." 

*'Ah, but that 'ud ha' been hard," said Silas, in an 
undertone; "it 'ud ha' been hard to trusten then." 

**And so it would," said Dolly, almost with com- 
punction; **them things are easier said nor done; and 
I'm partly ashamed o' talking." 

**Nay, nay," said Silas, *'you're i' the right, Mrs. 
Winthrop — you're i' the right. There's good i' this 
world — I've a feeling o' that now; and it makes a man 
feel as there's a good more nor he can see, i' spite o' the 
trouble and the wickedness. That drawing o' the lots is 
dark; but the child was sent to me: there's dealings 
with us — there's dealings." ^ 

This dialogue took place in Eppie's earlier years, when 
Silas had to part with her for two hours every day, that 
she might learn to read at the dame school, after he 
had vainly tried himself to guide her in that first step to 
learning. Now that she was grown up, Silas had often 
been led, in those moments of quiet outpouring which 
come to people who live together in perfect love, to talk 
with her too of the past, and how and why he had lived 
a lonely man until she had been sent to him. For it 
would have been impossible for him to hide from Eppie 
that she was not his own child : even if the most delicate 
reticence on the point could have been expected from 

^ The love for Eppie has brought Marner to a belief in a 
Providence. This faith he had lost when, at Lantern Yard, 
the lots declared him guilty of the theft. 



238 SILAS MARNER 

Raveloe gossips in her presence, her own questions about 
her mother could not have been parried, as she grew up, 
without that complete shrouding of the past which 
would have made a painful barrier between their minds. 
So Eppie had long known how her mother had died on 
the snowy ground, and how she herself had been found 
on the hearth by father Silas, who had taken her golden 
curls for his lost guineas brought back to him. The 
tender and peculiar love with which Silas had reared her 
in almost inseparable companionship with himself, aided 
by the seclusion of their dwelling, had preserved her 
from the lowering influences of the village talk and 
habits, and had kept her mind in that freshness which 
is sometimes falsely supposed to be an invariable 
attribute of rusticity. Perfect love has a breath of 
poetry which can exalt the relations of the least - 
instructed human beings ; and this breath of poetry had 
surrounded Eppie from the time when she had followed 
the bright gleam that beckoned her to Silas's hearth; so 
that it is not surprising if, in other things besides her 
delicate prettiness, she was not quite a common village 
maiden, but had a touch of refinement and fervour 
which came from no other teaching than that of 
tenderly-nurtured unvitiated feeling. She was too 
childish and simple for her imagination to rove into 
^questions about her unknown father ; for a long while it 
did not even occur to her that she must have had a 
father ; and the first time that the idea of her mother 
having had a husband presented itself to her, was when 
Silas showed her the wedding-ring which had been taken 
from the wasted finger, and had been carefully preserved 
by him in a little lackered box shaped like a shoe. He 



SILAS MARNER 239 

delivered this box into Eppie's charge when she bad 
grown up, and she often opened it to look at the ring : 
but still she thought hardly at all about the father of 
whom it was the symbol. Had she not a father very 
close to her, who loved her better than any real fathers 
in the village seemed to love their daughters? On the 
contrary, who her mother was, and how she came to die 
in that forlornness, were questions that often pressed on 
Eppie's mind. Her knowledge of Mrs. Winthrop, who 
was her nearest friend next to Silas, made her feel that 
a mother must be very precious ; and she had again and 
again asked Silas to tell her how her mother looked, 
whom she was like, and how he had found her against 
the furze bush, led towards it by the little footsteps and 
the outstretched arms. The furze bush was there still ; 
and this afternoon, when Eppie came out with Silas into 
the sunshine, it was the first object that arrested her 
eyes and thoughts. 

*'Father," she said, in a tone of gentle gravity, which 
sometimes came like a sadder, slower cadence across her 
playfulness, '*we shall take the furze bush into the 
garden; it'll come into the corner, and just against it 
I'll put snow-drops and crocuses, 'cause Aaron says they 
won't die out, but'll always get more and more." 

"Ah, child," said Silas, always ready to talk when he 
had his pipe in his hand, apparently enjoying the pauses 
more than the puffs, "it wouldn't do to leave out the 
furze bush ; and there's nothing prettier to my thinking, 
when it's yallow with flowers. But it's just come into 
my head what we're to do for a fence — mayhap Aaron 
can help us to a thought ; but a fence we must have, 
else the donkeys and things 'all come and trample every- 



240 SILAS MARNER 

thing down. And fencing's hard to be got at, by what 
X can make out." 

"0, I'll tell yon, daddy," said Eppie, clasping her 
hands suddenly, after a minute's thought. "There's 
lots o' loose stones about, some of 'em not big, and we 
might lay 'em atop of one another, and make a wall. 
You and me could carry the smallest, and Aaron 'ud 
carry the rest — I know he would." 

"Eh, my precious un," said Silas, "there isn't enough 
stones to go all round; and as for you carrying, why, 
wi' your little arms you couldn't carry a stone no bigger 
than a turnip. You're dillicate made, my dear," he 
added, with a tender intonation — "that's what Mrs. 
Winthrop says." 

"0, I'm stronger than you think, daddy," said 
Eppie; "and if there wasn't stones enough to go all 
round, why they'll go part o' the way, and then it'll be 
easier to get sticks and things for the rest. See here, 
round the big pit, what a many stones!" 

She skipped forward to the pit, meaning to lift one of 
the stones and exhibit her strength, but she started back 
in surprise. 

"0, father, just come and look here," she ex- 
claimed — "come and see how the water's gone down 
since yesterday. Why, yesterday the pit was ever so 
full!" 

"Well, to be sure," said Silas, coming to her side. 
"Why, that's the draining they've begun on, since 
harvest, i' Mr. Osgood's fields, I reckon. The foreman 
said to me the other day, when I passed by 'em, 'Master 
Marner,' he said, 'I shouldn't wonder if we lay your bit 
o' waste as dry as a bone.' It was Mr. Godfrey Cass, 



SILAS MARNER 241 

he said, had gone into the draining: he'd heen taking 
these fields o' Mr. Osgood." 

"How odd it'll seem to have the old pit dried up!" 
said Eppie, turning away, and stooping to lift rather a 
large stone. ''See, daddy, I can carry this quite well," 
she said, going along with much energy for a few steps, 
hut presently letting it fall. 

*'Ah, you're fine and strong, aren't you?" said Silas, 
while Eppie shook her aching arms and laughed. 
*'Come, come, let us go and sit down on the bank 
against the stile there, and have no more lifting. You 
might hurt yourself, child. You need have somebody 
to work for you — and my arm isn't overstrong." 

Silas uttered the last sentence slowly, as if it implied 
more than met the ear ; and Eppie, when they sat down 
on the bank, nestled close to his side, and, taking hold 
caressingly of the arm that was not overstrong, held it 
on her lap, while Silas puffed again dutifully at the 
pipe, which occupied his other arm. An ash in the 
hedgerow behind made a fretted screen from the sun, 
and threw happy playful shadows all about them. 

''Father," said Eppie, very gently, after they had 
been sitting in silence a little while, "if I was to be 
married, ought I to be married with my mother's ring?" 

Silas gave an almost imperceptible start, though the 
question fell in with the under-current of thought in his 
own mind, and then said, in a subdued tone, "Why, 
Eppie, have you been a-thinking on it?" 

"Only this last week, father," said Eppie, ingenu- 
ously, "since Aaron talked to me about it." 

"And what did he say?" said Silas, still in the 
same subdued way, as if he were anxious lest he should 



242 SILAS MARNER 

fall into the slightest tone that was not for Eppie's 
good. 

**He said he should like to be married, because he was 
a-going in four-and-twenty and had got a deal of garden- 
ing work, now Mr. Mott's given up; and he goes twice 
a-week regular to Mr. Cass's, and once to Mr. Osgood's, 
and they're going to take him on at the Rectory." 

**And who is it as he's wanting to marry?" said Silas, 
with rather a sad smile. 

''Why, me, to be sure, daddy," said Eppie, with 
dimpling laughter, kissing her father's cheek; *'as if 
he'd want to marry anybody else!" 

"And you mean to have him, do you?" said Silas. 

"Yes, some time," said Eppie, "I don't know when. 
Everybody's married some time, Aaron says. But I 
told him that wasn't true : for, I said, look at father — 
he's never been married." 

"No, child," said Silas, "your father was a lone man 
till you was sent to him." 

"But you'll never be lone again, father," said Eppie, 
"tenderly. "That was what Aaron said — 'I could never 
think o' taking you away from Master Marner, Eppie.' 
And I said, 'It 'ud be no use if you did, Aaron.' And 
he wants us all to live together, so as you needn't work 
a bit, father, only what's for your own pleasure; and 
he'd be as good as a son to you — that was what he 
said." 

"And should you like that, Eppie?" said Silas, look- 
ing at her. 

"I shouldn't mind it, father," said Eppie, quite 
simply. "And I should like things to be so as you 
needn't work much. But if it wasn't for that, I'd 



SILAS MARKER 243 

sooner things didn't change. I'm very happy : I like 
Aaron to be fond of me, and come and see us often, and 
behave pretty to you — he always does behave pretty to 
you, doesn't he, father?" 

'*Yes, child, nobody could behave better," said Silas, 
emphatically. "He's his mother's lad." 

"But I don't want any change," said Eppie. "I 
should like to go on a long, long while, just as we are. 
Only Aaron does want a change; and he made me cry a 
bit — only a bit — because he said I didn't care for him, 
for if I cared for him I should want us to be married, as 
he did." 

"Eh, my blessed child," said Silas, laying down his 
pipe as if it were useless to pretend to smoke any 
longer, "you're o'er young to be married. We'll ask 
Mrs. Winthrop — we'll ask Aaron's mother what she 
thinks: if there's a right thing to do, she'll come at it. 
But there's this to be thought on, Eppie: things will 
change, whether we like it or no; things won't go on for 
a long while just as they are and no difference. I shall 
get older and helplesser, and be a burden on you, belike, 
if I don't go away from you altogether. Not as I mean 
you'd think me a burden — I know you wouldn't — but it 
'ud be hard upon you; and when I look for'ard to that, 
I like to think as you'd have somebody else besides me 
— somebody young and strong, as '11 outlast your own 
life, and take care on you to the end." Silas paused, 
and, resting his ^Tists on his knees, lifted his hands up 
and down meditatively as he looked on the ground. 

"Then, would you like me to be married, father?" 
said Eppie, with a little trembling in her voice. 

"I'll not be the man to say no, Eppie," said Silas, 



244 SILAS MARNER 

emphatically; **but we'll ask your god-mother. She'll 
wish the right thing by you and her son too." 

** There they come then," said Eppie. "Let us go 
and meet 'em. the pipe ! won't you have it lit again, 
father?" said Eppie, lifting that medicinal appliance 
from the ground. 

"Nay, child," said Silas, "I've done enough for 
to-day. I think, mayhap, a little of it does me more 
good than so much at once. ' ' 



CHAPTER XVII 

While Silas and Eppie were seated on the bank dis- 
coursing in the fleckered shade of the ash-tree, Miss 
Priscilla Lammeter was resisting her sister's arguments, 
that it would be better to take tea at the Red House, 
and let her father have a long nap, than drive home to 
the Warrens so soon after dinner. The family party (of 
four only) were seated round the table in the dark 
wainscoted parlour, with the Sunday dessert before 
them, of fresh filberts, apples, and pears, duly orna- 
mented with leaves by Nancy's own hand before the 
bells had rung for church. 

A great change has come over the dark wainscoted 
parlour since we saw it in Godfrey's bachelor days, and 
under the wifeless reign of the old Squire. Now all is 
polish, on which no yesterday's dust is ever allowed to 
rest, from the yard's width of oaken boards round the 
carpet, to the old Squire's gun and whips and walking- 
sticks, ranged on the stag's antlers above the mantel- 
piece. All other signs of sporting and outdoor 
occupation Nancy has removed to another room; but 
she has brought into the Red House the habit of filial 
reverence, and preserves sacredly in a place of honour 
these relics of her husband's departed father. The 
tankards are on the side-table still, but the bossed silver 
is undimmed by handling, and there are no dregs to 
send forth unpleasant suggestions : the only prevailing 



246 SILAS MARNER 

scent is of the lavender and rose-leaves that fill the vases 
of DerbysWre spar. All is purity and order in this 
once dreary room, for, fifteen years ago, it was entered 
by a new presiding spirit. 

"Now, father," said Nancy, *'i*s there any call for you 
to go home to tea? Mayn't you just as well stay with 
us? — such a beautiful evening as it's likely to be." 

The old gentleman had been talking with Godfrey 
about the increasing poor-rate and the ruinous times, 
and had not heard the dialogue between his daughters, 

*'My dear, you must ask Priscilla," he said, in the 
once firm voice, now become rather broken. "She 
manages me and the farm too." 

"And reason good as I should manage you, father," 
said Priscilla, "else you'd be giving yourself your death 
with rheumatism. And as for the farm, if anything 
turns out wrong, as it can't but do in these times, there's 
nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find 
fault with but himself. It's a deal the best way o' being 
master, to let somebody else do the ordering, and keep 
the blaming in your own hands. It 'ud save many a 
man a stroke, /believe." 

"Well, well, my dear," said her father, with a quiet 
laugh, "I didn't say you don't manage for everybody's 
good." 

"Then manage so as you may stay tea, Priscilla," 
said Nancy, putting her hand on her sister's arm affec- 
tionately. "Come now; and we'll go round the garden 
while father has his nap." 

"My dear child, he'll have a beautiful nap in the gig, 
for I shall drive. And as for staying tea, I can't hear 
of it; for there's this dairymaid, now she knows she's to 



SILAS MARNER 247 

be married, turned Michaelmas/ she'd as lief pour the 
new milk into the pig-trough as into the pans. That's 
the way with 'em all: it's as if they thought the world 
'ud be new-made because they're to be married. So 
come and let me put my bonnet on, and there'll be time 
for us to walk round the garden while the horse is being 
put in." 

When the sisters were treading the neatly-swept 
garden- walks, between the bright turf that contrasted 
pleasantly with the dark cones and ai'ches and wall -like 
hedges of yew, Priscilla said — 

**I'm as glad as anything at your husband's making 
that exchange o' land ^\ith cousin Osgood, and begin- 
ning the dairying. It's a thousand pities you didn't do 
it before; for it'll give you something to fill your mind. 
There's nothing like a dairy if folks want a bit o' worrit 
to make the days pass. For as for rubbing furniture, 
when you can once see yom* face in a table there's noth- 
ing else to look for; but there's always something fresh 
with the dairy; for even in the depths o' winter there's 
some pleasure in conquering the butter, and making it 
come whether or no. My dear," added Priscilla, press- 
ing her sister's Iiand affectionately as they walked side 
by side, *'you'll never be low when you've got a dairy." 

*'Ah, Priscilla," said Nancy, returning the pressure 
with a gTateful glance of her clear eyes, "but it won't 
make up to Godfrey: a dairy's not so much to a man. 
And it's only what he cares for that ever makes me low. 
I'm contented with the blessings we have, if he could be 
contented." 



* A Saints-day in conmiemoration of the Archangel Michael. 
It occurs on the 39th of September. 



248 SILAS MARNER 

*'It drives me past patience," said Priscilla, impetu- 
ously, *'that way o' the men — always wanting and want- 
ing, and never easy with what they've got: they can't 
sit comfortable in their chairs when they've neither ache 
nor pain, but either they must stick a pipe in their 
mouths, to make 'em better than well, or else they must 
be swallowing something strong, though they're forced 
to make haste before the next meal comes in. But joy- 
ful be it spoken, our father was never that sort o' man. 
And if it had pleased God to make you ugly, like me, so 
as the men wouldn't ha' run after you, we might have 
kept to our own family, and had nothing to do with 
folks as have got uneasy blood in their veins." 

"0 don't say so, Priscilla," said Nancy, repenting 
that she had called forth this outburst; "nobody has 
any occasion to find fault with Godfrey. It's natural he 
should be disappointed at not having any children: 
every man likes to have somebody to work for and lay 
by for, and he always counted so on making a fuss with 
'em when they were little. There's many another man 
'ud hanker more than he does. He's the best of hus- 
bands." 

"0, I know," said Priscilla, smiling sarcastically, "I 
know the way o' wives; they set one on to abuse their 
husbands, and then they turn round on one and praise 
'em as if they wanted to sell 'em. But father '11 be 
waiting for me; we must turn now." 

The large gig with the steady old grey was at the 
front door, and Mr. Lammeter was already on the stone 
steps, passing the time in recalling to Godfrey what very 
fine points Speckle had when his master used to ride 
him. 



SILAS MARKER 249 

*'I always would have a good horse, you know," said 
the old gentleman, not liking that spirited time to be 
quite effaced from the memory of his juniors. 

"Mind you bring Nancy to the Warrens before the 
week's out, Mr. Cass," was Priscilla's parting injunc- 
tion, as she took the reins, and shook them gently, by 
way of friendly incitement to Speckle. 

"I shall just take a turn to the fields against the Stone- 
pits, Nancy, and look at the draining," said Godfrey. 

"You'll be in again by tea-time, dear?" 

"0, yes, I shall be back in an hour." 

It was Godfrey's custom on a Sunday afternoon to do 
a little contemplative farming in a leisurely walk. 
Nancy seldom accompanied him ; for the women of her 
generation — unless, like Priscilla, they took to outdoor 
management — were not given to much walking beyond 
their own house and garden, finding sufficient exercise in 
domestic duties. So, when Priscilla was not with her, 
she usually sat with Mant's Bible before her, and after 
following the text with her eyes for a little while, she 
would gi'adually permit them to wander as her thoughts 
had already insisted on wandering. 

But Nancy's Sunday thoughts were rarely quite out 
of keeping with the devout and reverential intention 
implied by the book spread open before her. She was 
not theologically instructed enough to discern very 
clearly the relation between the sacred documents of the 
past which she opened without method, and her own 
obscure, simple life; but the spirit of rectitude, and the 
sense of responsibility for the effect of her conduct on 
others, which were strong elements in Nancy's char- 
acter, had made it a habit with her to scrutinise her past 



250 SILAS MARNER 

feelings and actions with self -questioning solicitude. 
Her mind not being courted by a great variety of sub- 
jects, she filled the vacant moments by living inwardly, 
again and again, through all her remembered experience, 
especially through the fifteen years of her married time, 
in which her life and its significance had been doubled. 
She recalled the small details, the words, tones, and 
looks, in the critical scenes which had opened a new 
epoch for her by giving her a deeper insight into the 
relations and trials of life, or which had called on her 
for some little effort of forbearance, or of painful adher- 
ence to an imagined or real duty — asking herself con- 
tinually whether she had been in any respect blamable. 
This excessive rumination and self -questioning is per- 
haps a morbid habit inevitable to a mind of much moral 
sensibility when shut out from its due share of outward 
activity and of practical claims on its affections — inevi- 
table to a noble-hearted, childless woman, when her lot 
is narrow. "I can do so little — have I done it all well?" 
is the perpetually recurring thought ; and there are no 
voices calling her away from that soliloquy, no per- 
emptory demands to divert energy from vain regret or 
superfluous scruple. 

There was one main thread of painful experience in 
Nancy's married life, and on it hung certain deeply-felt 
scenes, which were the oftenest revived in retrospect. 
The short dialogue with Priscilla in the garden had 
determined the current of retrospect in that frequent 
direction this particular Sunday afternoon. The first 
wandering of her thought from the text, which she still 
attempted dutifully to follow with her eyes and silent 
lips, was into an imaginary enlargement of the defence 



SILAS MARNER S51 

she had set up for her husband against Priscilla's 
implied blame. The vindication of the loved object is 
the best balm affection can find for its wounds: — "A 
man must have so much on his mind," is the belief by 
which a wife often supports a cheerful face under rough 
answers and unfeeling words. And Nancy's deepest 
wounds had all come from the perception that the 
absence of children from their hearth was dwelt on in 
her husband's mind as a privation to which he could not 
reconcile himself. 

Yet sweet Nancy might have been expected to feel 
still more keenly the denial of a blessing to which she 
had looked forward with all the varied expectations and 
preparations, solemn and prettily trivial, which fill the 
mind of a loving woman when she expects to become a 
mother. Was there not a drawer filled with the neat 
work of her hands, all unworn and untouched, just as 
she had arranged it there fourteen years ago — just, but 
for one little dress, which had been made the burial- 
dress? But under this immediate personal trial Nancy 
was so firmly unmurmuring, that years ago she had sud- 
denly renounced the habit of visiting this drawer, lest she 
should in this way be cherishing a longing for what was 
not given. 

Perhaps it was this very severity towards any indul- 
gence of what she held to be sinful regret in herself that 
made her shrink from applying her own standard to 
her husband. **It is very different — it is much worse 
for a man to be disappointed in that way : a woman can 
always be satisfied with devoting herself to her husband, 
but a man wants something that will make him look for- 
ward more — and sitting by the fire is so much duller to 



252 SILAS MARNER 

him than to a woman." And always, when Nancy 
reached this point in her meditations — trying, with pre- 
determined sympathy, to see everything as Godfrey saw 
it — there came a renewal of self -questioning. Had she 
done everything in her power to lighten Godfrey's priva- 
tion? Had she really been right in the resistance which 
had cost her so much pain six years ago, and again four 
years ago — the resistance to her husband's wish that 
they should adopt a child? Adoption was more remote 
from the ideas and habits of that time than of our own ; 
still Nancy had her opinion on it. It was as necessary 
to her mind to have an opinion on all topics, not 
exclusively masculine, that had come under her notice, 
as for her to have a precisely marked place for every 
article of her personal property : and her opinions were 
always principles to be unwaveringly acted on. They 
were firm, not because of their basis, but because she 
held them with a tenacity inseparable from her mental 
action. On all the duties and proprieties of life, from 
filial behaviour to the arrangements of the evening toilet, 
pretty Nancy Lammeter, by the time she was three-and- 
twenty, had her unalterable little code, and had formed 
every one of her habits in strict accordance with that 
code. She carried these decided judgments within her 
in the most unobtrusive way : they rooted themselves in 
her mind, and grew there as quietly as grass. Years 
ago, we know, she insisted on dressing like Priscilla, 
because "it was right for sisters to di-ess alike," and 
because "she would do what was right if she wore a 
gown dyed with cheese-colouring." 

That was a trivial but typical instance of the mode in 
which Nancy's life was regulated. 



SILAS MARNER 253 

It was one of those rigid principles, and no petty- 
egoistic feeling, which had been the ground of Nancy's 
diflScult resistance to her husband's wish. To adopt a 
child, because children of your own had been denied 
you, was to try and choose your lot in spite of Provi- 
dence: the adopted child, she was convinced, would 
never turn out well, and would be a curse to those who 
had wilfully and rebelliously sought what it was clear 
that, for some high reason, they were better without. 
When you saw a thing was not meant to be, said Nancy, 
it was a bounden duty to leave o5 so much as wishing 
for it. And so far, perhaps, the wisest of men could 
scarcely make mor,e than a verbal improvement in her 
principle. But the conditions under which she held it 
apparent that a thing was not meant to be, depended on 
a more peculiar mode of thinking. She would have 
given up making a purchase at a particular place if, on 
three successive times, rain, or some other cause of 
Heaven's sending, had formed an obstacle; and she 
would have anticipated a broken limb or other heavy 
misfortune to any one who persisted in spite of such 
indications. 

*'But why should you think the child would turn out 
ill?" said Godfrey, in his remonstrances. ''She has 
thriven as well as child can do with the weaver; and lie 
adopted her. There isn't such a pretty little girl any- 
where else in the parish, or one fitter for the station we 
could give her. Where can be the likelihood of her 
being a curse to anybody?" 

"Yes, my dear Godfrey," said Nancy, who was sitting 
with her hands tightly clasped together, and with yearn- 
ing, regretful affection in her eyes. *'The child may 



254 SILAS MARNER 

not turn out ill with the weaver. But, then, he didn't 
go to seek her, as we should be doing. It will be wrong: 
I feel sure it will. Don't you remember what that lady 
we met at the Royston Baths told ua about the child her 
sister adopted? That was the only adopting I ever 
heard of: and the child was transported when it was 
twenty-three. Dear Godfrey, don't ask me to do what 
I know is wrong : I should never be happy again. I 
know it's very hard for you — it's easier for me — but it's 
the will of Providence." 

It might seem singular that Nancy — with her religioua 
theory pieced together out of narrow social traditions, 
fragments of church doctrine imperfectly understood, 
and girlish reasonings on her small experience — should 
have arrived by herself at a way of thinking so nearly 
akin to that of many devout people whose beliefs are 
held in the shape of a S3^stem quite remote from her 
knowledge: singular, if we did not know that human 
beliefs, like all other natural growths, elude the bairiers 
of system. 

Godfrey had from the first specified Eppie, then about 
twelve years old, as a child suitable for them to adopt. 
It had never occurred to him that Silas would rather 
part with his life than with Eppie. Surely the weaver 
would wish the best to the child he had taken so much 
trouble with, and would be glad that such good fortune 
should happen to her : she would always be very grate- 
ful to him, and he would be well provided for to the end 
of his life — provided for as the excellent part he had 
done by the child deserved. Was it not an appropriate 
thing for people in a higher station to take a charge off 
the hands of a man in a lower? It seemed an eminently 



SILAS MARNER 255 

appropriate thing to Godfrey, for reasons that were 
known only to himself ; and by a common fallacy, he 
imagined the measure would be easy because he had 
private motives for desiring it. This was rather a 
coarse mode of estimating Silas's relation to Eppie; but 
we must remember that many of the impressions which 
Godfrey was likely to gather concerning the labouring 
people around him would favour the idea that deep 
affections can hardly go along with callous palms and 
scant means ; and he had not had the opportunity, even 
if he had had the power, of entering intimately into all 
that was exceptional in the weaver's experience. It was 
only the want of adequate knowledge that could have 
made it possible for Godfrey deliberately to entertain an 
unfeeling project: his natural kindness had outlived 
that blighting time of cruel wishes, and Nancy's praise 
of him as a husband was not founded entirely on a 
wilful illusion. 

*'I was right," she said to herself, when she had 
recalled all their scenes of discussion — "I feel I was 
right to say him nay, though it hurt me more than any- 
thing ; but how good Godfrey has been about it I Many 
men would have been very angry with me for standing 
out against their wishes ; and they might have thrown 
out that they'd had ill-luck in marrying me ; but God- 
frey has never been the man to say me an unkind word. 
It's only what he can't hide : everything seems so blank to 
him, I know ; and the land — what a difference it 'ud make 
to him, when he goes to see after things, if he'd children 
growing up that he was doing it all for! But I won't 
murmur; and perhaps if he'd married a woman who'd 
have had children, she'd have vexed him in other ways." 



256 SILAS MARNER 

This possibility was Nancy's chief comfort; and to 
give it greater strength, she labonred to make it impos- 
sible that any other wife should have had more perfect 
tenderness. She had been forced to vex him by that 
one denial. Godfrey was not insensible to her loving 
effort, and did !N'ancy no injustice as to the motives of 
her obstinacy. It was impossible to have lived with her 
fifteen yeai's and not be aware that an unselfish clinging 
to the right, and a sincerity clear as the flower-born 
dew, were her main characteristics; indeed, Godfrey felt 
this so strongly, that his own more wavering nature, too 
averse to facing difficulty to be unvaryingly simple and 
truthful, was kept in a certain awe of this gentle wife 
who watched his looks with a yearning to obey them. It 
seemed to him impossible that he should ever confess to 
her the truth about Eppie: she would never recover 
from the repulsion the story of his earlier marriage 
would create, told to her now, after that long conceal- 
ment. And the child, too, he thought, must become an 
object of repulsion: the very sight of her would be 
painful. The shock to Nancy's mingled pride and 
ignorance of the world's evil might even be too much 
for her delicate frame. Since he had married her with 
that secret on his heart, he must keep it there to the 
last. Whatever else he did, he could not make an irrepar- 
able breach between himself and this long-loved wife. 

Meanwhile, why could he not make up his mind to 
the absence of children from a hearth brightened by 
such a wife? Why did his mind fly uneasily to that 
void, as if it were the sole reason why life was not thor- 
oughly joyous to him? I suppose it is the way with all 
men and women who reach middle age without the clear 



SILAS MARNER 257 

perception that life never can be thoroughly joyous: 
under the vague dulness of the grey hours, dissatisfac- 
tion seeks a definite object, and finds it in the privation 
of an untried good. Dissatisfaction seated musingly on 
a childless hearth, thinks with envy of the father whose 
return is greeted by young voices — seated at the meal 
where the little heads rise one above another like nursery 
plants, it sees a black care hovering behind every one of 
them, and thinks the impulses by which men abandon 
freedom, and seek for ties, are surely nothing but a brief 
madness. In Godfrey's case there were further reasons 
why his thoughts should be continually solicited by this 
one point in his lot ; his conscience, never thoroughly 
easy about Eppie, now gave his childless home the 
aspect of a retribution; and as the time passed on, 
under Nancy's refusal to adopt her, any retrieval of his 
error became more and more difficult. 

On this Sunday afternoon it was already four yearfa 
since there had been any allusion to the subject between 
them, and Nancy supposed that it was for ever buried. 

*'I wonder if he'll mind it less or more as he gets 
older," she thought; "I'm afraid more. Aged people 
feel the miss of children : what would father do without 
Priscilla? And if I die, Godfrey will be very lonely — 
not holding together with his brothers much. But I 
won't be over-anxious, and trying to make things out 
beforehand: I must do my best for the present." 

With that last thought Nancy roused herself from her 
reverie, and turned her eyes again towards the forsaken 
page. It had been forsaken longer than she imagined, 
for she was presently surprised by the appearance of the 
servant with the tea-things. It was, in fact, a little 



258 SILAS MARNER 

"before the usual time for tea ; but Jane had her reasons. 

*'Is your master come into the yard, Jane?" 

**No'm, he isn't," said Jane, with a slight emphasis, 
of which, however, her mistress took no notice. 

*'I don't know whether you've seen 'em, 'm," con- 
tinued Jane, after a pause, "but there's folks making 
haste all one way, afore the front window. I doubt 
something's happened. There's niver a man to be seen 
i' the yard, else I'd send and see. I've been up into the 
top attic, but there's no seeing anything for trees. I 
hope nobody's hurt, that's all. " 

*'0, no, I daresay there's nothing much the matter," 
said Xancy. ''It's perhaps Mr. Snell's bull got out 
again, as he did before." 

"I wish he mayn't gore anybody then, that's all," 
said Jane, not altogether despising a hypothesis which 
covered a few imaginary calamities. 

*'That gu'l is always terrifying me," thought Nancy; 
**I wish Godfrey would come in." 

She went to the front window and looked as far as 
she could see along the road, with an uneasiness which 
she felt to be childish, for there were now no such signs 
of excitement as Jane had spoken of, and Godfrey would 
not be likely to luturn by the village road, but by the 
jfields. She continucrl to stand, however, looking at the 
placid churchyard with the long shadows of the grave- 
stones across the bright green hillocks, and at the glow- 
ing autumn colours of the Eectory trees beyond. Before 
such calm external beauty the presence of a vague fear is 
more distinctly felt — ^like a raven flapping its slow wing 
across the sunny air. Nancy wished more and more 
that Godfrey would come in. 



CHAPTER XVIII 

Some one opened the door at the other end of the room, 
and Nancy felt that it was her husband. She turned 
from the window with gladness in her eyes, for the 
wife's chief dread was stilled. 

*'Dear, I'm so thankful you're come," she said, going 
towards him. **I began to get . . ." 

She paused abruptly, for Godfrey was laying down hia 
hat with trembling hands, and turned towards her with 
a pale face and a strange unanswering glance, as if he 
saw her indeed, but saw her as part of a scene invisible 
to herself. She laid her hand on his arm, not daring to 
speak again ; but he left the touch unnoticed, and threw 
himself into his chair. 

Jane was already at the door with the hissing urn. 
*'Tell her to keep away, will you?" said Godfrey; and 
when the door was closed again he exerted himself to 
speak more distinctly. 

"Sit down, Nancy — there," he said, pointing to a 
chair opposite him. *'I came back as soon as I could, 
to hinder anybody's telling you but me. I've had a 
great shock — but I care most about the shock it'll be to 
you." 

**It isn't father and Priscilla?" said Nancy, with 
quivering lips, clasping her hands together tightly on 
her lap. 

*'No, it's nobody living," said Godfrey, unequal to 

259 



260 SILAS MARNER 

the considerate skill with which he would have wished 
to make his revelation. "It's Dunstan — my brother 
Dunstan, that we lost sight of sixteen years ago. We've 
found him — found his body — his skeleton." 

The deep dread Godfrey's look had created in Nancy 
made her feel these words a relief. She sat in compar- 
ative calmness to hear what else he had to tell. He 
went on : 

*'The Stone-pit has gone dry suddenly — from the 
draining, I suppose ; and there he lies — has lain for six- 
teen years, wedged between two great stones. There's 
his watch and seals, and there's my gold-handled hunt- 
ing-whip, with my name on; he took it away, without 
my knowing, the day he went hunting on Wildfire, the 
last time he was seen. " 

Godfrey paused : it was not so easy to say what came 
next. "Do you think he drowned himself?" said 
Nancy almost wondering that her husband should be so 
deeply shaken by what had happened all those years ago 
to an unloved brother, of whom worse things had been 
augured. 

"No, he fell in," said Godfrey, in a low but distinct 
voice, as if he felt some deep meaning in the fact. 
Presently he added: "Dunstan was the man that robbed 
Silas Marner." 

The blood rushed to Nancy's face and neck at this 
surprise and shame, for she had been bred up to regard 
even a distant kinship with crime as a dishonour. 

"0 Godfrey!" she said, with compassion in her tone, 
for she had immediately reflected that the dishonour 
must be felt still more keenly by her husband. 

"There was the money in the pit," he continued — 



SILAS MARNER 261 

*'all the weaver's money. Everything's been gathered 
up, and they're taking the skeleton to the Rainbow. 
But I came back to tell you : there was no hindering it ; 
^ou must know." 

He was silent, looking on the ground for two long 
minutes. Nancy would have said some words of com- 
fort under this disgrace, but she refrained, from an 
instinctive sense that there was something behind — that 
Godfrey had something else to tell her. Presently he 
lifted his eyes to her face, and kept them fixed on her, 
as he said — 

* 'Everything comes to light, Nancy, sooner or later. 
When God Almighty wills it, our secrets are found out. 
I've lived with a secret on my mind, but I'll keep it 
from yoa no longer. I wouldn't have you know it by 
somebody else, and not by me — I wouldn't have you find 
it out after I'm dead. I'll tell you now. It's been '1 
will' and 'I won't' with me all my life — I'll make sure 
of myself now." 

Nancy's utmost dread had returned. The eyes of the 
husband and wife met with awe in them, as at a crisis 
which suspended affection. 

* 'Nancy," said Godfrey, slowly, "when I married 
you, I hid something from you — something I ought to 
have told you. That woman Marner found dead in the 
enow — Eppie's mother — that wretched woman — was my 
wife: Eppie is my child." 

He paused, di-eading the effect of his confession. But 
Nancy sat quite still, only that her eyes dropped and 
ceased to meet his. She was pale and quiet as a medi- 
tative statue, clasping her hands on her lap. 

*'You'll never think the same of me again," said 



262 SILAS MARKER 

Godfrey, after a little while, with some tremor in his 
voice. 

She was silent. 

**I oughtn't to have left the child unowned: I 
oughtn't to have kept it from you. But I couldn't bear 
to give you up, Nancy. I was led away into marrying 
her — I suffered for it." 

Still Nancy was silent, looking down; and he almost 
expected that she would presently get up and say she 
would go to her father's. How could she have any 
mercy for faults that must seem so black to her, with 
her simple severe notions? 

But at last she lifted up her eyes to his again and 
spoke. There was no indignation in her voice — only 
deep regret. 

** Godfrey, if you had but told me this six years ago, 
we could have done some of our duty by the child. 
Do you think I'd have refused to take her in, if I'd 
known she was yours?" 

At that moment Godfrey felt all the bitterness of an 
error that was not simply futile, but had defeated its 
own end. He had not measured this wife with whom he 
had lived so long. But she spoke again, with more 
agitation. 

''"And — 0, Godfrey — if we'd had her from the first, if 
you'd taken to her as you ought, she'd have loved me 
for her mother — and you'd have been happier with me: 
I could better have bore my little baby dying, and our 
life might have been more like what we used to think it 
'udbe." 

The tears fell, and Nancy ceased to speak. 

**But you wouldn't have married me then, Nancy, if 



SILAS MARNER 263 

I'd told you," said Godfrey, urged, in the bitterness of 
his self-reproach, to prove to himself that his conduct 
had not been utter folly. **You may think you would 
now, but you wouldn't then. With your pride and your 
•other's, you'd have hated having anything to do with 
me after the talk there'd have been." 

"I can't say what I should have done about that, 
Godfrey. I should never have married anybody else. 
But I wasn't worth doing wrong for — nothing is in this 
world. Nothing is so good as it seems beforehand — not 
even our marrying wasn't, you see." There was a faint 
sad smile on Nancy's face as she said the last words. 

"I'm a worse man than you thought I was, Nancy," 
said Godfrey, rather tremulously. **Can you forgive me 
ever?" 

*'The wrong to me is but little, Godfrey: you've 
made it up to me — you've been good to me for fifteen 
years. It's another you did the wrong to; and I doubt 
it can never be all made up for." 

'*But we can take Eppie now," said Godfrey. *'I 
won't mind the world knowing at last. I'll be plain 
and open for the rest o' my life." 

"It'll be different coming to us, now she's grown 
up," said Nancy, shaking her head sadly. "But it's 
your duty to acknowledge her and provide for her ; and 
I'll do my part by her, and pray to God Almighty to 
make her love me." 

"Then we'll go together to Silas Marner's this very 
night, as soon aa everything's quiet at the Stone-pits." 



CHAPTER XIX 

BetweeK eight and nine o'clock that evening, Eppie 
and Silas were seated alone in the cottage. After the 
great excitement the weaver had undergone from the 
events of the afternoon, he had felt a longing for this 
quietude, and had even begged Mrs. Winthrop and 
Aaron, who had naturally lingered behind every one 
else, to leave him alone with his child. The excitement 
had not passed away : it had only reached that stage 
when the keenness of the susceptibility makes external 
stimulus intolerable — when there is no sense of weari- 
ness, but rather an intensity of inward life, under which 
sleep is an impossibility. Any one who has watched 
such moments in other men remembers the brightness of 
the eyes and the strange definiteness that comes over 
coarse features from that transient influence. It is as if 
a new fineness of eai' for all spiritual voices had sent 
wonder-working vibrations through the heavy mortal 
frame — as if *' beauty born of murmuring sound" had 
passed into the face of the listener. 

Silas's face showed that sort of transfiguration, as he 
sat in his arm-chair and looked at Eppie. She had 
drawn her own chair towards his knees, and leaned for- 
ward, holding both his hands, while she looked up at 
him. On the table near them, lit by a candle, lay the 
recovered gold — the old long -loved gold, ranged in 
orderly heaps, as Silas u/sed to range it in the days when 

2t)^ 



SILAS MARNER 265 

it was his only joy. He had been telling her how he 
used to count it every night, and how his soul was 
utterly desolate till she was sent to him. 

*At first, I'd a sort o' feeling come across me now 
and then," he was saying in a subdued tone, **as if you 
might be changed into the gold again ; for sometimes, 
turn my head which way I would, I seemed to see the 
gold; and I thought I should be glad if I could feel it, 
and find it was come back. But that didn't last long. 
After a bit, I should have thought it was a curse come 
again, if it had drove you from me, for I'd got to feel 
the need o' your looks and your voice and the touch o' 
your little fingers. You didn't know then, Eppie, when 
you were such a little un — you didn't know what your 
old father Silas felt for you." 

**But I know now, father," said Eppie. *'If it 
hadn't been for you, they'd have taken me to the work- 
house, and there'd have been nobody to love me." 

"Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If 
you hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to 
the grave in my misery. The money was taken away 
from me in time; and you see it's been kept — kept till 
it was wanted for you. It's wonderful — our life is 
wonderful." 

Silas sat in silence a few minutes, looking at the 
money. *'It takes no hold of me now," he said, pon- 
deringly — ''the money doesn't. I wonder if it ever 
could again — I doubt it might, if I lost you, Eppie. I 
might come to think I waa forsaken again, and lose the 
feeling that God was good to me." 

At that moment there was a knocking at the door ; 
and Eppie was obliged to rise without answering Silas. 



266 SILAS MARNER 

Beautiful she looked, with the tenderness of gathering 
tears in her eyes and a slight flush on her cheeks, as she 
stepped to open the door. The flush deepened when she 
saw Mr. and Mr. Godfrey Cass. She made her little 
rustic curtsy, and held the door wide for them to enter. 

"We're disturbing you very late, my dear," said Mrs. 
Cass, taking Eppie's hand, and looking in her face with 
an expression of anxious interest and admiration. 
Nancy herself was pale and tremulous. 

Eppie, after placing chairs for Mr. and Mrs. Cass, 
went to stand against Silas, opposite to them. 

**Well, Marner," said Godfrey, trying to speak with 
perfect firmness, "it's a great comfort to me to see you 
with your money again, that you've been deprived of so 
many years. It was one of my family did you the 
wrong — the more grief to me — and I feel bound to make 
up to you for it in every way. Whatever I can do for 
you will be nothing but paying a debt, even if I looked 
no further than the robbery. But there are other things 
I'm beholden — shall be beholden to you for, Marner." 

Godfrey checked himself. It had been agreed 
between him and his wife that the subject of his father- 
hood should be approached very carefully, and that, if 
possible, the disclosure should be reserved for the 
future, so that it might be made to Eppie gradually. 
Nancy had urged this, because she felt strongly the 
painful light in which Eppie must inevitably see the 
relation between her father and mother. 

Silas, always ill at ease when he was being spoken to 
by "betters," such as Mr. Cass — tall, powerful, florid 
men, seen chiefly on horseback — answered with some 
constraint — 



SILAS MARNER 267 

**Sir, I've a deal to thank you for a 'ready. As for 
the robbery, I count it no loss to me. And if I did, you 
couldn't help it: you aren't answerable for it." 

'*You may look at it in that way, Marner, but I never 
can; and I hope you'll let me act according to my own 
feeling of what's just. I know you're easily contented: 
you've been a hard-working man all your life." 

'*Yes, sir, yes," said Marner, meditatively. "I 
should ha' been bad off without my work : it was what I 
held by when everything else was gone from me." 

"Ah," said Godfrey, applying Marner 's words simply 
to his bodily wants, "it was a good trade for you in this 
country, because there's been a great deal of linen-weav- 
ing to be done. But you're getting rather past such 
close work, Marner: it's time you laid by and had some 
rest. You look a good deal pulled down, though you're 
not an old man, are you?" 

"Fifty-five, as near as I can say, sir," said Silas, 

"0, why, you may live thirty years longer — ^look at 
old Macey ! And that money on the table, after all, is 
but little. It won't go far either way — whether it's put 
out to interest, or you were to live on it as long as it 
would last: it wouldn't go far if you'd nobody to keep 
but yourself, and you've had two to keep for a good 
many years now." 

"Eh, sir," said Silas, unaffected by anytliing Godfrey 
was saying, "I'm in no fear o' want. We shall do very 
well — Eppie and me 'ull do well enough. There's few 
working-folks have got so much laid by as that. I 
don't know what it is to gentlefolks, but I look upon it 
as a deal — almost too much. And as for us, it's little 
we want " 



268 SILAS MARNER 

*' Only the garden, fialier," said Eppie, blushing up 
to the ears the moment after. 

**You love a garden, do you, my dear?" said Nancy, 
thinking that this turn in the point of view might help 
her husband. **We should agree in that: I give a deal 
of time to the garden." 

"Ah, there's plenty of gardening at the Red House," 
said Godfrey, surprised at the difficulty he found in 
approaching a proposition which had seemed so easy to 
him in the distance. "You've done a good part by 
Eppie, Marner, for sixteen years. It 'ud be a great 
comfort to you to see her well provided for, wouldn't it? 
She looks blooming and healthy, but not fit for any 
hardships : she doesn't look like a strapping girl come of 
working parents. You'd like to see her taken care of 
by those who can leave her well off, and make a lady of 
her ; she's more fit for it than for a rough life, such as 
she might come to have in a few year's time." 

A slight flush came over Marner 's face, and disap- 
peared, like a passing gleam. Eppie was simply wonder- 
ing Mr. Cass should talk so about things that seemed to 
have nothing to do with reality, but Silas was hurt and 
uneasy. 

"I don't take your meaning, sir," he answered, not 
having words at command to express the mingled feel- 
ings with which he had heard Mr. Cass's words. 

"Well, my meaning is this, Marner," said Godfrey, 
determined to come to the point. "Mrs. Cass and I, 
you know, have no children — nobody to be the better for 
our good home and everything else we have — more than 
enough for ourselves. And we should like to have 
somebody in the place of a daughter to us — we should 



SILAS MARNER 269 

like to have Eppie, and treat her in every way as our 
own child. It 'ud be a great comfort to you in your 
old age, I hope, to see her fortune made in that way, 
after you've been at the trouble of bringing her up so 
well. And it's right you should have every reward for 
that. And Eppie, I'm sure, will always love you and be 
grateful to you : she'd come and see you very often, and 
we should all be on the look-out to do everything we 
could towards making you comfortable. " 

A plain man like Godfrey Cass, speaking under some 
embarrassment, necessarily blunders on words that are 
coarser than his intentions, and that are likely to fall 
gratingly on susceptible feelings. While he had been 
speaking, Eppie had quietly passed her arm behind 
Silas's head, and let her hand rest against it caressingly: 
she felt him trembling violently. He was silent for 
some moments when Mr. Cass had ended — powerless 
under the conflict of emotions, all alike painful. 
Eppieis heart was swelling at the sense that her father 
was in distress ; and she was just going to lean down and 
speak to him, when one struggling dread at last gained 
the mastery over every other in Silas, and he said, 
faintly — 

"Eppie, my child, speak. I won't stand in your 
way. Thank Mr. and Mrs. Cass." 

Eppie took her hand from her father's head, and came 
forward a step. Her cheeks were flushed, but not with 
shyness this time : the sense that her father was in doubt 
and suffering banished that sort of self-consciousness. 
She dropt a low curtsy, first to Mrs. Cass and then to 
Mr. Cass, and said — 

*' Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir. But I can't 



270 SILAS MARNER 

leave my father, nor own anybody nearer than him.* 
And I don't want to be a lady — thank you all the 
same" (here Eppie dropped another curtsy). '*I 
couldn't give up the folks I've been used to." 

Eppie 's lip began to tremble a little at the last words. 
She retreated to her father's chair again, and held him 
round the neck : while Silas, with a subdued sob, put up 
his hand to grasp hers. 

The tears were in Nancy's eyes, but her sympathy 
with Eppie was, naturally, divided with distress on her 
husband's account. She dared not speak, wondering 
what was going on in her husband's mind. 

Godfrey felt an irritation inevitable to almost all of us 
when we encounter an unexpected obstacle. He had 
been full of his own penitence and resolution to retrieve 
his error as far as the time was left to him; he was 
possessed with all-important feelings, that were to lead 
to a predetermined course of action which he had fixed 
on as the right, and he was not prepared to enter with 
lively appreciation into other people's feelings coun- 
teracting his virtuous resolves. The agitation with 
which he spoke again was not quite unmixed with 
anger. 

^ This passage, an important one, suggests one of the 
cardinal ideas of George Eliot's philosophy, — the influence 
on character of environment. The real father had deserted 
Eppie, had not been such even in name; the foster father 
had reared her and given her a real parent's love. To 
the latter then the heart of Eppie spontaneously^ cleaves 
and the prospect of position and wealth is no temptation. 
This outcome is not only an illustration of the force of 
surroundings; it is also a vindication of human gratitude 
and an illustration of the power of Nemesis. 



SILAS MARNER 271 

*'Biit I've a claim on yon, Eppie — the strongest of all 
claims. It's my duty, Marner, to own Eppie as my 
child, and provide for her. She's jrj own child: her 
mother was my wife. I've a natural claim on her that 
El list stand before every other." 

Eppie had given a violent start, and turned quite 
pale. Silas, on the contrary, who had been relieved, by 
Eppie 's answer, from the dread lest his mind should be 
in opposition to hers, felt the spirit of resistance in him 
set free, not without a touch of parental fierceness. 
"Then, sir," he answered, with an accent of bitterness 
that had been silent in him since the memorable day 
when his youthful hope had perished — "then, sir, why 
didn't you say so sixteen year ago, and claim her before 
I'd come to love her, i'stead o' coming to take her from 
me now, when you might as well take the heart out o' 
my body? God gave her to me because you turned your 
back upon her. and He looks upon her as mine: you've 
no right to her ! When a man turns a blessing from his 
door, it falls to them as take it in." 

*'I know that, Marner. I was wrong. I've repented 
of my conduct in that matter," said Godfrey, who could 
not help feeling the edge of Silas's words. 

"I'm glad to hear it, sir," said Marner, with gather- 
ing excitement; "but repentance doesn't alter what's 
been going on for sixteen year. Your coming now and 
saying 'I'm her father' doesn't alter the feelings inside 
us. It's me she's been calling her father ever since she 
could say the word." 

"But I think you might look at the thing more 
reasonably, Marner," said Godfrey, unexpectedly awed 
by the weaver's direct truth-speaking. "It isn't as if 



272 SILAS MARKER 

she was to be taken quite away from you, so that you'd 
never see her again. She'll be very near you, and come 
to see you very often. She'll feel just the same towards 
you." 

'*Just the same?" said Marner, more bitterly than 
ever. ''How '11 she feel just the same for me as she does 
now, when we eat o' the same bit, and drink o' the same 
cup, and think o' the same things from one day's end to 
another? Just the same? that's idle talk. You'd cut 
us i' two." 

Godfrey, unqualified by experience to discern the 
pregnancy of Marner's simple words, felt rather angry 
again. It seemed to him that the weaver was very sel- 
fish (a judgment readily passed by those who have never 
tested their own power of sacrifice) to oppose what was 
undoubtedly for Eppie's welfare; and he felt himself 
called upon, for her sake, to assert his authority. 

*'I should have thought, Marner," he said, severely — 
*'I should have thought your affection for Eppie would 
make you rejoice in what was for her good, even if it 
did call upon you to give up something. You ought to 
remember your own life's uncertain, and she's at an age 
now when her lot may soon be fixed in a way very 
different from what it would be in her father's home: 
she may marry some low working-man, and then, what- 
ever I might do for her, I couldn't make her well-off. 
You're putting yourself in the way of her welfare; and 
though I'm sorry to hurt you after what you've done, 
and what I've left undone, I feel now it's my duty to 
insist on taking care of my own daughter. I want to do 
my duty." 

It would be difficult LO say whether it were Silas or 



SILAS MARNER 273 

Eppie that was more deeply stirred by this last speech of 
Godfrey's. Thought had been very busy in Eppie as 
she listened to the contest between her old long-loved 
father and this new unfamiliar father who had suddenly 
come to fill the place of that black featureless shadow 
which had held the ring and placed it on her mother's 
finger. Her imagination had darted backward in con- 
jectures, and forward in previsions, of what this revealed 
fatherhood implied ; and there were words in Godfrey's 
last speech which helped to make the previsions espe- 
cially definite. Not that these thoughts, either of past 
or future, determined her resolution — that was deter- 
mined by the feelings which vibrated to every word Silas 
had uttered; but they raised, even apart from these feel- 
ings, a repulsion towards the offered lot and the newly- 
revealed father. 

Silas, on the other hand, was again stricken in con- 
science, and alarmed lest Godfrey's accusation should be 
true — ^lest he should be raising his own will as an 
obstacle to Eppie 's good. For many moments he was 
mute, struggling for the self -conquest necessary to the 
uttering of the difficult words. They came out tremu- 
lously. 

"I'll say no more. Let it be as you will. Speak to 
the child. I'll hinder nothing." 

Even Nancy, with all the acute sensibility of her own 
affections, shared her husband's view, that Marner was 
not justifiable in his wish to retain Eppie, after her real 
father had avowed himself. She felt that it was a very 
hard trial for the poor weaver, but her code allowed no 
question that a father by blood must have a claim above 
that of any foster-father. Besides, Nancy, used all her 



274 SILAS MARNER 

life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of 
* 'respectability," could not enter into the pleasures 
which early nurture and habit connect with all the little 
aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor : to her 
mind, Eppie, in being restored to her birthright, was 
entering on a too long withheld but unquestionable 
good. Hence she heard Silas's last words with relief, 
and thought, as Godfrey did, that their wish was 
achieved. 

**Eppie, my dear," said Godfrey, looking at his 
daughter, not without some embarrassment, under the 
sense that she was old enough to judge him, * 'it'll 
always be our wish that you should show your love and 
gratitude to one who's been a father to you so many 
years, and we shall want to help you to make him com- 
fortable in every way. But we hope you'll come to love 
us as well; and though I haven't been what a father 
should ha' been to you all these years, I wish to do the 
utmost in my power for you for the rest of my life, and 
provide for you as my only child. iVnd you'll have the 
best of mothers in my wife — that'll be a blessing you 
haven't known since you were old enough to know it." 

"My dear, you'll be a treasure to me," said Nancy, in 
her gentle voice. "We shall want for nothing when we 
have our daughter." 

Eppie did not come forward and curtsy, as she had 
done before. She held Silas's hand in hers, and grasped 
it firmly — it was a weaver's hand, with a palm and 
finger-tips that were sensitive to such pressure — while 
she spoke with colder decision than before. 

"Thank you, ma'am — thank you, sir, for your offers 
— they're very great, and far above my wish. For I 



SILAS MARNER 275 

should have no delight i' life any more if I was forced 
to go away from my father, and knew he was sitting at 
home, a-thinking of me and feeling lone. We've been 
used to he happy together every day, and I can't think 
o' no happiness without him. And he says he'd nobody 
i' the world till I was sent to him, and he'd have noth- 
ing when I was gone. And he's took care of me and 
loved me from the first, and I'll cleave to him as long as 
he lives, and nobody shall ever come between him and 
me." 

**But you must make sure, Eppie," said Silas, in a 
low voice — *'you must make sure as you won't ever be 
sorry, because you've made your choice to stay among 
poor folks, and with poor clothes and things, when you 
might ha' had everything o' the best." 

His sensitiveness on this point had increased as he 
listened to Eppie 's words of faithful affection. 

"I can never be sorry, father," said Eppie. "I 
shouldn't know what to think on or to wish for with 
fine things about me, as I haven't been used to. And it 
*ud be poor work for me to put on things, and ride in a 
gig, and sit in a place at church, as 'ud make them as 
I'm fond of think me unfitting company for 'em. 
What could /care for then?" 

Nancy looked at Godfrey with a pained questioning 
glance. But his eyes were fixed on the floor, where he 
was moving the end of his stick, as if he were ponder- 
ing on something absently. She thought there was a 
word which might perhaps come better from her lips 
than from his. 

**What you say is natural, my dear child — it's natural 
you should cling to those who've brought you up," she 



276 SILAS MARNER 

said, mildly; *'bnt there's a duty yon owe to your law- 
ful father. There's perhaps something to be given up 
on more sides than one. When yom' father opens his 
home to you, I think it's right you shouldn't tui'n your 
back on it. " 

"I can't feel as I've got any father but one," said 
Eppie, impetuously, while the tears gathered. ''I've 
always thought of a little home where he'd sit i' the 
corner, and I should fend and do everything for him : I 
can't think o' no other home. I wasn't brought up to 
be a lady, and I can't turn my mind to it. I like the 
working-folks, and their victuals, and their ways. 
And," she ended passionately, while the tears fell, "I'm 
promised to marry a working-man, as '11 live with 
father, and help me to take care of him." 

Godfrey looked up at Nancy with a flushed face and 
Bmarting dilated eyes. This fi*ustration of a purpose 
towards which he had set out under the exalted con- 
sciousness that he was about to compensate in some 
degree for the greatest demerit of his life, made him 
feel the air of the room stifling. 

"Let us go," he said, in an under-tone. 

"We won't talk of this any longer now," said Nancy, 
rising. "We're your well-wishers, my dear — and yours 
too, Marner. We shall come and see you again. It's 
getting late now." 

In this way she covered her husband's abrupt 
departure, for Godfrey had gone straight to the door, 
unable to say more. 



CHAPTER XX 

Nancy and Godfrey walked home under the starlight in 
silence. When they entered the oaken parlour, Godfrey 
threw himself into his chair, while Nancy laid down her 
bonnet and shawl, and stood on the hearth near her 
husband, unwilling to leave him even for a few minutes, 
and yet fearing to utter any word lest it might jar on his 
feeling. At last Godfrey turned his head towards her, 
and their eyes met, dwelling in that meeting without 
any movement on either side. That quiet mutual gaze 
of a trusting husband and wife is like the first moment 
of rest or refuge from a gi'eat weariness or a great danger 
— not to be interfered with by speech or action which 
would distract the sensations from the fresh enjoyment 
of repose. 

But presently he put out his hand, and as Nancy 
placed hers within it, he drew her towards him, and said — 

''That's ended!" 

She bent to kiss him, and then said, as she stood by 
his side, "Yes, I'm afraid we must give up the hope of 
having her for a daughter. It wouldn't be right to 
want to force her to come to us against her will. We 
can't alter her bringing up and what's come of it." 

"No," said Godfrey, with a keen decisiveness of tone, 
in contrast with his usually careless and unemphatic 
speech — "there's debts we can't pay like money debts, 
by paying extra for the years that have slipped by. 
While I've been putting off and putting off, the trees 

211 



278 SILAS MARKER 

have been growing — it's too late now. Marner was in 
the right in what he said about a man's turning away a 
l^lessing from his door: it falls to somebody else. I 
wanted to pass for childless once, Nancy — I shall pass 
for childless now against my wish." 

Nancy did not speak immediately, but after a little 
while she asked — "You won't make it known, then, 
about Eppie's being your daughter?" 

*'No: where would be the good to anybody? — only 
harm. I must do what I can for her in the state of life 
she chooses. I must see who it is she's thinking of 
marrying." 

"If it won't do any good to make the thing known," 
said Nancy, who thought she might now allow herself 
the relief of entertaining a feeling which she had tried 
to silence before, *'I should be very thankful for father 
and Priscilla never to be troubled with knowing what 
was done in the past, more than about Dunsey : it can't 
be helped, their knowing that." 

*'I shall put it in my will — I think I shall put it in 
my will. I shouldn't like to leave anything to be found 
out, like this about Dunsey," said Godfrey meditatively. 
*'But 1 can't see anything but difficulties that 'ud come 
from telling it now. I must do what I can to make her 
happy in her own way. I've a notion," he added, after 
a moment's pause, *'it's Aaron Winthrop she meant she 
was engaged to. I remember seeing him with her and 
Marner going away from church." 

"Well, he's very sober and industrious," said Nancy, 
trying to view the matter as cheerfully as possible. 

Godfrey fell into thoughtfulness again. Presently he 
looked up at Nancy sorrowfully, and said — 



SILAS MARNER 279 






'She's a very pretty, nice girl, isn't she, Nancy?" 
'Yes, dear; and with just your hair and eyes: I 
wondered it had never struck me before." 

*'I think she took a dislike to me at the thought of 
my being her father: I could see a change in her 
manner after that." 

*'She couldn't bear to think of not looking on Marner 
as her father," said Xancj, not wishing to confirm her 
husband's painful impression. 

**She thinks 1 did wrong by her mother as well as by 
her. She thinks me worse than I am. But she must 
think it: she can never know all. It's part of my pun- 
ishment, Nancy, for my daughter to dislike me. I 
should never have got into that trouble if I'd been true 
to you — if I hadn't been a fool. I'd no right to expect 
anything but evil could come of that marriage — and 
when I shirked doing a father's part too." 

Nancy was silent : her spirit of rectitude would noc let 
her try to soften the edge of what she felt to be a just 
compunction. He spoke again after a little while, but 
the tone was rather changed: there was tenderness 
mingled with the previous self-reproach. 

**And I got you, Nancy, in spite of all; and yet I've 
been grumbling and uneasy because I hadn't something 
else — as if I deserved it." 

*' You've never been wanting to me, Godfrey," said 
Nancy, with quiet sincerity. "My only trouble would 
be gone if you resigned yourself to the lot that's been 
given us." 

*'Well, perhaps it isn't too late to mend a bit there. 
Though it is too late to mend some things, say what 
thev will." 



CHAPTEE XXI 

The next morning, when Silas and Eppie were seated at 
their breakfast, he said to her — 

"Eppie, there's a thing I've had on my mind to do 
this two year, and now the money's been brought back 
to US, we can do it. I've been turning it over and over 
in the night, and I think we'll set out to-morrow, while 
the fine days last. We'll leave the house and everything 
for your godmother to take care on, and we'll make a 
little bundle o' things and set out." 

"Where to go, daddy?" said Eppie, in much surprise. 

"To my old country — to the town where I was born — 
up Lantern Yard. I want to see Mr. Paston, the min- 
ister : something may ha' come out to make 'em know I 
was innicent o' the robbery. And Mr. Paston was a 
man with a deal o' light — I want to speak to him about 
the drawing o' the lots. And I should like to talk to 
him about the religion o' this country-side, for I partly 
think he doesn't know on it." 

Eppie was very joyful, for there was the prospect not 
only of wonder and delight at seeing a strange country, 
but also of coming back to tell Aaron all about it. 
Aaron was so much wiser than she was about most 
things — it would be rather pleasant to have this little 
advantage over him. Mrs. Winthrop, though possessed 
with a dim fear of dangers attendant on so long a 
journey, and requiring many assurances that it would 

280 



SILAS MARNER 281 

not take them out of the region of carriers' carta and 
alow waggons, was nevertheless well pleased that Silas 
should revisit his own country, and find out if he had 
been cleared from that false accusation. 

"You'd be easier in your mind for the rest o' your 
life, Master Marner," said Dolly — "that you would. 
And if there's any light to be got up the yard as you 
talk on, we've need of it i' this world, and I'd be glad 
on it myself, if you could bring it back." 

So on the fourth day from that time, Silas and Eppie, 
in their Sunday clothes, with a small bundle tied in a 
blue linen handkerchief, were making their way through 
the streets of a great manufacturing town. Silas, 
bewildered by the changes thirty years had brought over 
his native place, had stopped several persons in succes- 
sion to ask them the name of this town, that he might 
be sure he was not under a mistake about it. 

"Ask for Lantern Yard, father — ask this gentleman 
with the tassels on his shoulders a-standing at the shop 
door; he isn't in a hurry like the rest," said Eppie, in 
some distress at her father's bewilderment, and ill at 
ease, besides, amidst the noise, the movement, and the 
multitude of strange indifferent faces. 

"Eh, my child, he won't know anything about it," 
said Silas; "gentlefolks didn't ever go up the Yard. 
But happen somebody can tell me which is the way to 
Prison Street, where the jail is. I know the way out o' 
that as if I'd seen it yesterday." 

With some difficulty, after many turnings and new 
inquiries, they reached Prison Street; and the grim 
walls of the jail, the first object that answered to any 
image in Silas's memory, cheered him with the certi- 



282 SILAS MARNER 

tude, whicli no assurance of the town's name had 
hitherto given him, that he was in his native place. 

"Ah," he said, drawing a long breath, "there's the 
jail, Eppie; that's just the same: I aren't afraid now. 
It's the third turning on the left hand from the jail 
doors — that's the way we must go." 

"0, what a dark ugly place!" said Eppie. "How it 
hides the sky! It's worse than the Workhouse. I'm 
glad you don't live in this town now, father. Is Lan- 
tern Yard like this street?" 

"My precious child," said Silas, smiling, "it isn't a 
big street like this. I never was easy i' this street 
myself, but I was fond o' Lantern Yard. The shops 
here are all altered, I think — I can't make 'em out; but 
I shall know the turning, because it's the third." 

"Here it is," he said, in a tone of satisfaction, as they 
came to a narrow alley. "And then we must go to the 
left again, and then straight for'ard for a bit, up Shoe 
Lane : and then we shall be at the entry next to the 
o'erhanging window, where there's the nick in the road 
for the water to run. Eh, I can see it all." 

"0 father, I'm like as if I was stifled," said Eppie. 
"I couldn't ha' thought as any folks lived i' this way, 
so close together. How pretty the Stone-pits 'ull look 
when we get back !" 

"It looks comical to me, child, now — and smells bad. 
I can't think as it usened to smell so." 

Here and there a sallow, begrimed face looked out 
from a gloomy doorway at the strangers, and increased 
Eppie's uneasiness, so that it was a longed-for relief 
when they issued from the alleys into Shoe Lane, where 
there was a broader strip of sky. 



SILAS MARNER 283 

**Dear heart!" said Silas, *'wliy, there's people com- 
ing out o' the Yard as if they'd been to chapel at thi£^ 
time o' day — a weekday noon!" 

Suddenly he started and stood still with a look of dis- 
tressed amazement, that alarmed Eppie. They were 
before an opening in front of a large factory, from 
which men and women were streaming for their mid-day 
meal. 

*Tather," said Eppie, clasping his arm, "what's the 
matter?" 

But she had to speak again and again before Silas 
could answer her. 

"It's gone, child," he said, at last, in strong agitation 
— "Lantern Yard's gone. lb must ha' been here, 
because here's the house with the o'erhanging window — 
I know that — it's just the same; but they've made this 
new opening; and see that big factory! It's all gone- 
chapel and all." 

"Come into that little brush-shop and sit down, 
father — they'll let you sit down," said Eppie, always on 
the watch lest one of her father's strange attacks should 
come on. "Perhaps the people can tell you all about 
it." 

But neither from the brush-maker, who had come to 
Shoe Lane only ten years ago, whe» the factory was 
already built, nor from any other source within his 
reach, could Silas learn anything of the old Lantern 
Yard friends, or of Mr. Paston the minister. 

"The old place is all swep' away," Silas said to Dolly 
Winthrop on the night of his return — "the little grave- 
yard and everything. The old heme's gone; I've no 
home but this now. I shall never know whether they 



^84 SILAS MARNER 

got at the truth o' the robbery, nor whether Mr. Pas ton 
could ha' given me any light about the drawing o' the 
lots. It's dark tp me, Mrs. Wintlirop, that is; I doubt 
it'll be dark to the last." 

"Well, yes. Master Marner," said Dolly, who sat with 
a placid listening face, now bordered by grey hairs; ''I 
doubt it may. It's the will o' Them above as a many 
things should bo dark to us; but there's some things as 
I've never felt i' the dark about, and they're mostly 
what comes i' the day's work. You were hard done by 
that once. Master Marner, and it seems as you'll never 
know the rights of it; but that doesn't hinder there 
leing a rights, Master Marner, for all it's dark to you 
and me." 

*'No," said Silas, "no; that doesn't hinder. Since 
the time the child was sent to me and I've come to love 
her as myself, I've had light enough to trusten by; and 
now she says she'll never leave me, I think I shall 
trusten till I die." 



CO'N^CLUSION" 

There was one time of the year which was held in 
Eaveloe to be especially suitable for a wedding. It was 
when the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fashioned 
gardens showed their golden and purple wealth above 
the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still 
young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk. 
People were not so busy then as they must become when 
the full cheese-making and the mowing had set in ; and 
besides, it was a time when a light bridal dress could be 
worn v/ith comfort and seen to advantage. 

Happily the sunshine fell more warmly than usual on 
the lilac tufts the morning that Eppie was married, for 
her di'ess was a very light one. She had often thought, 
though with a feeling of renunciation, that the perfec- 
tion of a wedding-dress would be a white cotton, with 
the tiniest pink sprig at wide intervals ; so that when 
Mrs. Godfrey Cass begged to provide one, and asked 
Eppie to choose what it should be, previous meditation 
had enabled her to give a decided answer at once. 

Seen at a little distance as she walked across the 
chiu'chyard and down the village, she seemed to be 
attired in pure white, and her hair looked like the dash 
of gold on a lily. One hand was on her husband's arm, 
and with the other she clasped the hand of her father 
Silas. 

"You won't be giving me away, father," she had said 

285 



286 SILAS MARNER 

before tliey went to church; "you'll only be taking 
Aaron to be a son to you." 

Dolly Winthrop walked behind with her husband; 
and there ended the little bridal procession. 

There were many eyes to look at it, and Miss Priscilla 
Lammeter was glad that she and her father had happened 
to drive up to the door of the Red House just in time to 
see this pretty sight. They had come to keep Nancy 
company to-day, because Mr. Cass had had to go away 
to Lytherley, for special reasons. That seemed to be a 
pity, for otherwise he might have gone, as Mr. Cracken- 
thorp and Mr. Osgood certainly would, to look on at the 
wedding-feast which he had ordered at the Rainbow, 
naturally feeling a great interest in tlie weaver who had 
been wronged by one of his own family. 

"I could ha' wished Nancy had had the luck to find a 
child like that and bring her up," said Priscilla to her 
father, as they sat in the gig; "I should ha' had some- 
thing young to think of then, besides the lambs and the 
calves." 

"Yes, my dear, yes," said Mr. Lammeter; "one feels 
that as one gets older. Things look dim to old folks : 
they'd need have some young eyes about 'em, to let 'em 
know the world's the same as it used to be." 

Nancy came out now to welcome her father and sister ; 
and the wedding group had passed on beyond the Ked 
House to the humbler pai't of the village. 

Dolly Winthrop was the first to divine that old Mr. 
Macey, who had been set in his arm-chair outside his 
own door, would expect some special notice as they 
passed, since he was too old to be at the wedding-feast. 

"Mr. Macey 's looking for a word from us," said 



CONCLUSION 287 

Dolly; "he'll be hurt if we pass him and say nothing — 
and him so racked with rheumatiz." 

So they turned aside to shake hands with the old man. 
He had looked forward to the occasion, and had his pre- 
meditated speech. 

"Well, Master Marner," he said, in a voice that 
quavered a good deal, "I've lived to see my words com& 
true. I was the first to say there was no harm in you, 
though your looks might be again' you ; and I was the 
first to say you'd get your money back. And it's noth- 
ing but rightful as you should. And I'd ha' said the 
*Amens,' and willing, at the holy matrimony; but 
Tookey's done it a good while now, and I hope you'll 
have none the worse luck." 

In the open yard before the Eainbow the pai'ty of 
guests were already assembled, though it was still neai'ly 
an hour before the appointed feast-time. But by this 
means they could not only enjoy the slow advent of their 
pleasure ; they had also ample leisure to talk of Silas 
Marner 's strange history, and arrive by due degrees at 
the conclusion that he had brought a blessing on himself 
by acting like a father to a lone motherless child. Even 
the farrier did not negative this sentiment : on the con- 
trary, he took it up as peculiarly his own, and invited 
any hardy person present to contradict him. But he 
met with no contradiction ; and all differences among 
the company were merged in a general agreement with 
Mr. Snell's sentiment, that when a man had deserved 
his good luck, it was the part of his neighbours to wish 
him joy. 

As the bridal group approached, a heai'ty cheer was 
raised in the Rainbow yard ; and Ben Winthrop, whose 



288 SILAS MARNER 

jokes had retained their acceptable flavour, found it 
agreeable to turn in there and receive congratulations ; 
not requiring the proposed interval of quiet at the 
Stone-pits before joining the company. 

Eppie had a larger garden than she had ever expected 
there now ; and in other ways there had been alterations 
at the expense of Mr. Cass, the landlord, to suit Silas's 
larger family. For he and Eppie had declared that they 
would rather stay at the Stone-pits than go to any new 
home. The garden was fenced with stones on two 
sides, but in front there v/as an open fence, through 
which the flowers shone with answering gladness, as the 
four united people came within sight of them. 

**0 father," said Eppie, "what a pretty home ours is! 
I think nobody could be happier than we are. ' ' 



THE END 



WASHINGTON IRVING 

1783-1859 



[For Questions on the Life of Irving, The 
Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Living's 
Literary Style, see pages 11 to 16 of Marsh 
and Royster's Manual for teaching English 
Classics, hound in this vohtme.] 



Copyright, 1901. by Scott, Fobesman and Company 



IXTEODUCTION 



I, BIOGRAPHY 



There is a familiar engraving which represents an 
imaginary gathering of Washington Irving and his literary 
irvin and friends at Sunnyside, the home of Irving 's 
his literary later years. In the center of the foreground 
riends. Irving is seated, a somewhat portly, smooth- 

faced and kindly-looking man of fifty or more. At his 
near left stands James K. Paulding, an early literary 
comrade and life-long friend. Near by sit Bryant, the 
poet and editor, Cooper, the novelist, and Bancroft, the 
historian. Somewhat in the background stands a younger 
man — Emerson, the poet and philosopher. On the right 
the place of honor is held by Prescott, Irving's friendly 
rival in the field of Spanish history. Here also are Hal- 
leck, remembered as the author of Marco Bozzaris^ and, 
again in the background, several younger men — Nathan- 
iel Parker Willis, William Gilmore Simms, Longfellow, 
Hawthorne, Holmes. But the center of the picture is 
Irving; all the other figures of the group combine to 
bring him out with special prominence. 

This fancy of the artist pictures to us very well the 
place of Washington Irving in American letters during 
the later years of his life. Other names were becoming 
known — those of Longfellow, Hawthorne, Emerson— 
names that were destined to equal, some of them perhaps 
to surpass, his in renown; hue they were the nynies 

9 



10 INTRODUCTION 

of young men, candidates for fame and as yet hardly well 
breathed in the race. Irving was nearing the term of a 
long and prosperous career, a career that covers one-half 
of our whole literary history. He could look back to the 
time when American letters were not yet in existence, for 
he himself was the chief founder of them. 

American 

literature Until Within a fcw ycars of the Revolution- 

before ^^.y ^^^j. uhqh had been too much engaged 

Irving. , , 

in clearmg farms and building homes to 
spend much time on the more leisurely pursuits of art and 
letters. There were historians, for example Bradford and 
Winslow; and preachers, for example Cotton Mather and 
Jonathan Edwards. But often their work is crude in 
form and narrow in subject- matter; when we read the 
writers of this period now it is with something of the anti- 
quarian's pleasure in their quaintness and archaisms, or the 
historian's interest in the information to be derived from 
them. In a somewhat later period the intellectual stir that 
preceded and accompanied the Revolution bore fruit in a 
plentiful yield of state papers, speeches, pamphlets, and 
even poetry. Some of it is extremely vigorous, and at its 
time it was effective. But, as is almost always true of lit- 
erature written for a special time or occasion, very little 
of it has outlived the period of its production. With the 
possible exception of Woolman the Quaker's Journal, the 
only American book written before the close of the Revo- 
lutionary War that still holds a worthy place by reason of 
its literary excellence is Franklin's AiUoMograpliy. Yet 
nothing was further from Franklin's intention than the 
composition of a work of literature. Franklin was states- 
man, scientist, philanthropist, all more or less consciously ; 
but he has come to be counted among men of letters 
almost by accident. The first writer in America who 



BIOGRAPHY 11 

deliberately chose letters as a profession was Charles 
Brockden Brown, a moderately successful journalist and 
novelist of the first decade of this century. But Brown's 
work did not have sufficient power or originality to draw 
together and give form to the incipient literary tendencies 
of the country. Irving, the first American to gain wide 
reputation abroad, was also the first to gain a reputation 
at home that has proved lasting. Cooper and Bryant were 
his near followers; but all the other names in the first 
flowering period of American literature came into promi- 
nence only after his fame had reached its zenith. 

Irving was born in New York in 1783, the year the 

Treaty of Paris was signed and the independence of the 

United States formally acknowledged. 

Irving'8 birth. „, , . , , , 

Washington, for whom he was named, was 
inaugurated when Irving was six years old ; and we are 
told that when he came to New York to take the oath 
of office as first President, he placed his hands upon 
the head of his youthful namesake and gave him his 
blessing. 

That America of which Washington took control in 
1789 was an almost inconceivably different country from 
the America of to-day. The settled portions of it were 
still a mere fringe along the Atlantic coast. Eighteen 
years were to pass before Fulton made his first experi- 
ments with the "Clermont" on the Hudson, and thirty- 
nine years before work was begun on the Baltimore 
and Ohio railroad, the first railroad to cross the Allegha- 
nies. But perhaps the most astonishing changes of the 
past hundred years are those which have affected the 
cities of the country. When Irving was a boy in New 
York, that place was a town of less than 25,000 inhab- 
itants. It covered only the lower end, the point, of 



12 INTRODUCTION 

Manhattan Islando The present Bleeker Street marked 
the northern limits of the little town.^ Beyond that 
stretched the rocky, hill-broken farms of the Dutch set- 
tlers — the Wolfert Webbers whom fate was to make rich 
in spite of themselves. The fashionable promenade was 
in Battery Park, now a region of grimy shipping and 
ugly warehouses: and William Street, in which Irving's 
father lived, now a street of tall office-buildings, was then 
an uptown residence street. 

There was much in the life of this eighteenth -century 
New York to excite the imagination of a sensitive boy, and 
Irving spent his time in exploring the secret places of his 
native city and in wandering through the half -wild regions 
beyond the Harlem. The wandering instinct was strongly 
developed in him, and when his explorations on land grew 
tame, he tells how he would go down to the wharves at the 
city's edge and watch with longing eye the great vessels 
sail slowly out of the harbor on their long voyages across 
the ocean. 

His own first long voyage was one he never forgot. In 
his seventeenth year his parents gave him permission to 
make a summer visit to his sister, who lived near Albany. 
In 1800 the best way to reach Albany from New York was 
by boat on the Hudson Eiver. Nowadays the distance is 
irvin-^'s first Ki^tl© ^^ Icss than twclvc hours ; but then it 
trip up the wasalougvoyagc by sail, and Irving tells with 
what anxiety intending passengers selected 
their boat and made all possible preparations for their com- 
fort. This journey made known to Irving for the first time 
the beauties of the river that he never ceased to love. The 
depth and vividness of the impressions he received at this 

1 Cf. Todd, The Story of New York, p. 438. 



BIOGRAPHY 13 

time may be seen from the following description written 
many years afterwards : 

"What a time of intense delight was that first sail 
throngh the Highlands! I sat on the deck as we slowly 
tided along at the foot of those stern mountains, and 
gazed w^ith wonder and admiration at those stern cliifs 
impending far above me, crowned with forests, with 
eagles sailing and screaming around them ; or listened to 
the unseen stream dashing down precipices; or beheld 
rock, and tree, and cloud, and sky reflected in the glassy 
stream of the river. And then how solemn and thrilling 
the scene as we anchored at night at the foot of these 
mountains, clothed with overhanging forests; and every- 
tliing grew dark and mysterious ; and I heard the plaintive 
note of the whip-poor-will from the mountain-side, or was 
startled now and then by the sudden leap and heavy 
splash of the sturgeon. 

". . . But of all the scenery of the Hudson, the 
Kaatskill Mountains had the most witching effect on my 
boyish imagination. Xever shall I forget the effect upon 
me of the first view of them predominating over a wide 
extent of country, part w^ild, w^oody, and rugged; part 
softened away into all the graces of cultivation. As we 
slowly floated along, I lay on the deck and watched them 
through a long summer's day, undergoing a thousand 
mutations under the magical effects of atmosphere; some- 
times seeming to approach, at other times to recede; now 
almost melting into hazy distance, now burnished by the 
setting sun, until, in the evening, they printed themselves 
against the glowing sky in the deep purple of an Italian 
landscape." — Life, by P. M. Irving, vol. I, p. 19. 

Perhaps, as it so often proves with the recollections of 
childhood, Irving has unconsciously filled in the above 
picture from the recollection of his frequent later trips up 
the Hudson. Yet the fact that these later recollections all 
center around that first early experience shows that it was 
a profound one, and, in Irving's life, the most form- 
ative of them all. 



14 INTRODUCTION 

But manifestly a man's life could not all be spent in 

idle wandering, however pleasant that might be. In the 

summer after this trip up the Hudson Irving 

Attempts ^ ^j^g serious study of the law. His 

at law. o J 

preliminary education had been very slight 
indeed. He had attended a boy's school for some years, 
and had prepared for entrance to Columbia college. Two 
of his brothers had attended this college and had been 
graduated from it. But, perhaps through negligence or 
a dislike of all formal study, Irving himself did not 
enter the college. In after life he always regretted the 
omission of the formal discipline of a college course in 
his education, for he thought it deprived him of an advan- 
tage he was never able to make up in other ways. With 
no more liking for the routine of law than for that of the 
school, Irving nevertheless gave his attention to the former 
subject for the next few years. Before he could be admitted 
to the bar, however, his health broke down, and in 1804, 
in hopes of restoring him, it was determined to send him 
on a voyage to Europe. Thus, though doubtless in a way 
far different from that he had imagined, a long- cherished 
wish was to be realized. 

The voyage across the water was made in May and June 
of 1804, and proved to be the thing Irving most needed. 

When, after a voyage of six weeks, he left 
fo^Euiope!^^ the ship at Bordeaux, his health was very 

much improved. For a year and a half, he 
was a traveller and sight-seer, visiting various places in 
France, Italy, and England, meeting many famous peo- 
ple, and passing through many exciting and whimsical 
adventures. He scon developed the true traveller's spirit 
and took the buffets and the favors of fortune with equal 
good will. During most of these journeyings, he kept 



BIOGRAPHY 15 

a diary in which he noted his opinions and observa- 
tions and described the adventures of a traveller's life. 
Perhaps the most exciting of these experiences was an 
attack by Italian pirates. He was passenger on a ship 
bound from Genoa to Messina for a cargo of wine, and 
when several days out the ship was attacked by pirates, 
off the coast of Italy near the Island of Elba. Though 
the affair proved a bloodless one, it was not unattended 
with danger. The description of it^ reads almost like an 
extract from one of Irving's own banditti stories in the 
Tales of a Traveller^ owdi often in writing those stories, 
he must have thought of his early experiences in Italy. 
Fortunately no more serious adventure than this of the 
pirates occurred to interrupt the journeyings of the 
youthful traveller. He continued on his way through 
France and Italy, and passed the latter part of his stay 
abroad in England. He took ship for America in Janu- 
ary, 1806, and after a rough voyage of over nine weeks, 
arrived safely at New York. 

As soon as he had settled down in his old place, Ir^ang 
again took up the study of the law, and after several 

months, in November, 1806, was admitted 
to the Bar. ^^ ^^^® ^^^ ^^ Ncw York. His admissiou, 

however, was due more to the good-nature 
of his examiners than to the adequacy of his preparation ; 
for we may well suppose that what little legal learning 
had found its way into his brain before his departure had 
been quite crowded out by the many new experiences of 
his two years abroad. Even after his admission to the 
bar, he does not appear to have taken much interest in his 
profession. To his natural dislike of the dry routine of 
business there was added the further distraction of an 

1 Life, by P. W. Irving, vol. I, p. 65 ff . ^ 



16 INTRODUCTION 

active social life. He had many graces of nature and of 
manner; his disposition was frank and kindly, and wher- 
ever he was known he was liked. His letters of this 
period from Kichmond and Baltimore and Washington 
show with what ease and pleasure he took his place in 
the best social life of the community in which he hap- 
pened to find himself. 

About this time Irving made his first attempts of any 
importance at literature. Together with his brother Wil- 
liam and James K. Paulding a young friend 
and relative, he projected a Spectator- 
like periodical called Salmagundi. The first number 
of this periodical appeared in January 1807, and nine- 
teen other numbers appeared at irregular intervals be- 
tween that time and the appearance of the last number 
in January, 1808. The purpose of the periodical as 
announced by the editors in the first number was impu- 
dent enough when we consider their age and inexperience : 
*'Our purpose is simply to instruct the young, reform the 
old, correct the town, and castigate the age; this is an 
arduous task, and therefore we undertake it with confi- 
dence." The essays, broadly humorous and satirical, had 
the high-spirits and unrestraint of youth. They secured 
for the writers a considerable local popularity, but they 
were ephemeral in character and Irving himself was soon 
quite willing to have them forgotten. 

Irving's second literary venture brought him a wider 

and more lasting fame than the Salmagundi papers. In 

1809 he published his Knicherhocker'' s His- 

mi^o?/.**^''^^' i^^'y ^f ^^^''^ ^^^'^^' ^^^^ is ^ burlesque 
history of New York, supposed to have 

been made up from the writings of a Dutch antiquary, 

Diedrich Knickerbocker. It undoubtedly ranks as 



BIOGRAPHY 17 

Irving's masterpiece of humor. Sir Walter Scott, who 
praised the book warmly, thought he saw in it great 
resemblance to the satire of Swift. The Knicherhocher 
History^ however, is without the deep seriousness of 
Swift's satire; like Salmagundi^ it shows more the 
high spirits of youth than the settled purpose of the 
satirist. At the time of the appearance of the book it 
was severely criticised by many of the Dutch families 
in New York, who felt personally aggrieved at the ludi- 
crous figures their Dutch ancestry made in its pages. 
And in fact there was slight justification for such treat- 
ment of the burghers of New Amsterdam. Irving chose 
to present the unjustly exaggerated view of Dutch char- 
acter that had long been traditional in British literature. 
In England, where the Dutch with their armies and fleets 
had several times so frightened the English that the Eng- 
lish were driven to exaggerated satire to regain their self- 
respect, such a treatment of the subject as Irving's would 
have had point ; but in America no more inoffensive and 
industrious race of people than the Dutch was to be found 
in all the Colonies. But neither satire nor history was 
the main object of the Knidcerlocher History. Irving, 
writing in 1848, thus outlines the purpose of the book: 

"It was to embody the traditions of our city in an amus- 
ing form; to illustrate its local humors, customs, and 
peculiarities ; to clothe home scenes and places and familiar 
names with those imaginative and whimsical associations 
so seldom met with in our new country, but which live 
like charms and spells about the cities of the old world, 
binding the heart of the native inhabitant to his home." 

How well the book accomplished this purpose can be 
seen by a glance at its present-day effects. In New Y^ork 
the Knickerbocker legend has worked itself into the very 
fiber of the people. Allusions to it are familiarly used 



18 INTRODUCTION 

by many who have never read a line of Irving. The name 
itself, by an odd change, has become a synonym for aris- 
tocracy. In a thousand ways the legend has preserved 
traditions and sentiments that otherwise would have been 
speedily lost. It lives like a charm and a spell, binding 
the heart of the native inhabitant to his country; it has 
become itself a part of the country. 

The Knicherlocher History was revised and brought to 
completion beneath the darkest shadow that ever obscured 

Irving 's sky. Matilda Hoffman, to whom he 
Hoffman.^*^* ^^^ engaged to be married, died after a brief 

illness in her eighteenth year. Her memory 
always lingered in his mind,ready to be called forth by the 
slightest occasion. He never again thought of marriage, 
and never accustomed himself to speak Miss Hoffman's 
name. There was something of fine chivalry in him that 
held him true even to a memory, and to the end he always 
kept before him the image of his early love in her first 
youth and beauty. 

The next few years after the appearance of the Knicher- 
hocker History saw nothing new from Irving's pen. His 

natural indolence must explain this, for his 
di^culties. ^^^ practice made slight enough demands 

upon his time. In 1810 he was made a 
silent partner in a hardware business which was conducted 
by his brothers. This connection, though first the cause 
of much anxiety to him, was finally the making of his 
literary career. For the business affairs of the firm hav- 
ing become embarrassed, in 1815 Irving was sent to a 
branch house in Liverpool for the purpose of putting 
things in order. For three years he labored over the 
uncongenial details of business. But the affairs of the 
firm passed from bad to worse, and despite the brothers' 



BIOGRAPHY 19 

best efforts, in 1818 they were finally driven to bank- 
ruptcy. In this apparent misfortune, however, there lay 
a blessing for Irving; his undisciplined nature always 
needed a strong incentive to work, and in the necessity of 
making a living he found this incentive. Leaving Liver- 
pool, he went up to London with no other defense against 
the hostility of fortune than his pen ; and the rest of Irv- 
ing's life is the story of the way he, with that single 
weapon, not only won wealth abundant but an enduring 
fame and honor better than all wealth. 

The first fruit of Irving's activity in London was his most 

famous book — the Sketch Booh. The story of the way this 

book was written shows clearly the diffi- 

SketchBook. ^ . ^ . . , ^ . "^ , 

culties under which Irvmg at the time 
labored. He was far from home, with no helpful friend 
to turn to for adWce or comfort, and with no prospect of 
any certain income ; worst of all, however, was his home 
friends' lack of faith in him. To them it seemed mad- 
ness when Irving refused an unimportant government 
position at Washington which would have given him an 
assured income but would have shut the way entirely to 
any further literary advance. In the face of these diffi- 
culties Irving went bravely to work upon the project of 
the Sketch Book. His plan was to issue the book in num- 
bers, in America only, under the name of Geoffrey Crayon. 
In the prospectus prefixed to the first number, he 
announced the plan of his work in a very tentative and 
hesitating manner, showing clearly how unsure he was of 
himself : 



((I 



'The following writings are published on experi- 
ment; should they please, they may be followed by others. 
The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. 
He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and 



20 INTRODUCTION 

has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, there- 
fore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publi- 
cation. ' ' 

The first number appeared in May, 1819, and contained 
Tlie AutJior^s Account of Himself, The Voyage, Roscoe^ 
The Wife, and Rip Van WinMe. The second number 
appeared several months later and contained four essays — 
English Writers on America, Rural Life in England, The 
Broken Heart, and The Art of Book-making. A third 
number appeared in September of the same year and was 
followed at irregular intervals by four more numbers, the 
last number appearing in September, 1820. 

The success of the Sketch Book was immediate and gen- 
eral. The pen-name Geoffrey Crayon could not hide the 
fact that the Knickerhocker History of New 

Its success. 

York and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow were 
written by the same hand, and to the liking for the 
sketches themselves was added all Irving's earlier popu- 
larity. The books sold well and relieved their author of 
the worry and trouble of immediate need. But better 
than this, their success restored to him some of the con- 
confidence in himself which the anxieties of the past few 
years had robbed him of. Sir Walter Soott offered him 
the editorship of a new periodical publication about 
to be established in Edinburgh; and Irving, though he 
declined the offer because he felt himself unfit for the reg- 
ular routine of such an occupation, was very much grati- 
fied at this renewed expression of good will on the part 
of the great author. The kind words of his intimate 
friends and the generous appreciation of many of the best 
critics in America revived him and gave him incentive to 
renewed effort. His fine sensitiveness to praise and blame 
shows clearly in the way in which he took the news of 



BIOGRAPHY 21 

his success. The following extract is from a letter 
written to a friend in New York after the appearance of 
several numbers of the work : 

"The manner in which the work has been received, and 
the eulogiums that have been passed upon it in the Amer- 
ican papers and periodical works, have completely over- 
whelmed me. They go far, far beyond my most sanguine 
expectations; and, indeed, are expressed with such pecul- 
iar warmth and kindness, as to aiiect me in the tenderest 
manner. The receipt of your letter, and the reading of 
some of the criticisms this morning, have rendered me 
nervous for the whole day. I feel almost appalled by such 
success, and fearful that it cannot be real, or that it is not 
fully merited, or that I shall not act up to the expecta- 
tions that may be formed. We are whimsically consti- 
tuted beings. I had got out of conceit of all that I had 
written, and considered it very questionable stuli, and 
now that it is so extravagantly be-praised, I begin to feel 
that I shall not do as well again. However we shall see 
as we get on. As yet I am extremely irregular and pre- 
carious in my fits of composition. The least thing puts 
me out of the vein, and even applause flurries me, and 
prevents my writing; though, of course, it will ulcimately 
be a stimulus. 

"I hope you will not attribute all this sensibility to the 
kind reception I have met with to an author's vanity. I 
am sure it proceeds from very different sources. Vanity 
could not bring the tears into my eyes, as they have been 
brought by the kindness of my countrymen. I have felt 
cast down, blighted, and broken-spirited, and these sud- 
den ravs of sunshine agitate even more than they revive 
me."— Z^/e, by P. M. Irving, vol. I, pp. 330, 31. 

After the first six numbers of the Sketch Booh had ap- 
peared in America, Irving was driven by the appearance of 
various unauthorized editions to publish them in Eng- 
land. The first attempt came to grief through the failure 
of his publisher ; but finally, aided by the good words of 



22 INTRODUCTION 

Walter Scott, the book was accepted by Murray, the 

-greatest of English publishers. Its success in England 

was as great as it was in America; perhaps 

Publication ^-^^ ^Qg^ evident mark of this is the fact 

in iLngland. 

that twice the publisher begged the author 
to accept a sum of one hundred guineas in addition 
to the terms agreed upon by them. We, as Americans, 
however, have special reason to feel gratified that the 
success of the Sketch Booh was first won in America. In 
that day, American critical judgment depended only too 
often upon British example and it is a pleasure to know 
that our first native writer of importance was accepted by 
us without waiting upon foreign opinion. 

The next few years after the appearance of the Sketch 
Booh were years of wandering. The autumn and winter of 
1820-21 were spent on the continent, chiefly in Paris. Here 
Irving formed a firm friendship with Thomas Moore, the 
poet ; and indeed we should expect sympathy of spirit be- 
tween the man who wrote the Broken Heart and the author 

of the Irish Melodies. After his return to 
Bracebridge Loudou, in January, 1822, Irving published 
of aTraveuer. Bvacehriclge Hallj first in America, and in 

May of the same year in England. In method 
the book resembles the Sketch Book; it is a miscella^ieous 
collection of essays and short stories suggested by the 
experiences of travel or elaborated from the outlines of 
things that had long been ripening in the author's mem- 
ory. Though it did not have the charm of novelty, it 
was well received both in England and America. Again 
in 1822 Irving was on the continent, travelling through 
Prance and Germany. It was on this journey, while 
detained by illness at Mayence that he wrote the intro- 
duction to a volume which takes its title from the cir- 



BIOGRAPHY 2$ 

ciimstances of its composition — the Tales of a Traveller. 
The body of the book was written during the winter 
of 1823-24, in Paris, though the completed volume was 
not published until his return to England, in 1824. De- 
spite Irviug's own special liking for the Tales of a Trav- 
eller and despite the fact that it contains some of the 
author's best work, it was coolly received by the pub- 
lic. The reason for this is evident. The three books 
that he had so far published — the Sketch Booh^ Brace- 
hridge Hall^ and the Tales of a Traveller^ were of a kind. 
They were all books made up of pleasant descriptive 
and reflective essays and humorous short stories ; they all 
breathed the same quiet air of kindly though not very 
vigorous interest in the life of the world the author knew. 
Something of this was accepted eagerly and more was- 
taken willingly; but Irving was guilty of the error of feed- 
ing to satiety the taste he had aroused and his readers 
murmured at the same dish continually set before them. 

Irving was not slow in seeing that the field he had hith- 
erto been cultivating was worked out. He determined ta 
place himself in entirely new, fresh sur- 
Life in Spain, rouudiugs and to occupy himsclf with an en- 
tirely new sort of work. In 1826 he went 
to Spain, in which country he lived for three years. This 
period he spent in visiting the various famous places of 
the land and in much close reading of historical manu- 
scripts in the chief Spanish libraries. The results of 
these historical studies appeared in the publication of his 
Life of Columbus, in 1828; of the Conquest of Granada 
in 1829 ; of the ComjMniojis of CoUimhus in 1831 ; and, as a 
final lighter postlude to these more serious works, of the 
Alliamhra in 1832. 

The year of the publication of the Alhambra closes- 



24 INTRODUCTION 

a period in Irving's life. In that year, after an un- 
broken absence of seventeen years, he came home to New- 
York. How eagerly he always looked forward to this 
return is made very evident in his letters to his friends 
throughout the whole of these seventeen years. He had 
never the slightest thought of a permanent residence 
abroad, and now that success had brought him a good 

name and an assured income, he rejoiced in 
home! "^" them chieily because they helped him to 

realize what had always been his first hope. 
After the disturbances of the home-coming were over and 
after several extensive trips through the South and the 
West, sections of the country which were almost unbroken 
wilderness when he left America but now were filled with 
cities and towns, he purchased the little Dutch cottage 
on the bank of the Hudson near Tarrytown, called by its 
former owner Wolfert's Roost, that is in English, Wol- 
fert's Rest, but known to us better by the name which 
Irving gave it, — Sunny side. Here he passed the rest of 
his life with the exception of four years, from 1842-48, 
during which time he served as minister to Spain. 

During Irving's residence at Madrid, no diplomatic com- 
plications which might have tested his political w^isdom 
arose. The distractions of his position w^ere sufficient, 
however, to prevent him from carrying out any of his 
literary plans, and at the close of his four years he was 
glad to return to his home on the banks of the Hudson. 
These years at Sunnyside were serene and happy ones. 
Irving was the foremost man of letters in America and 
his home became the natural center of all the literary 
life of the country. He was looked upon as both the 
founder and the patriarch of American letters. He was 
not however content to rest in honor, and as a result of 



BIOGRAPHY 25 

these last labors he published in 1849 a Life of Oliver 
Goldsmith and a Life of Mahomet. His last work was a 
Last works Life of Washington. He had been engaged 
and death. upon this task f or many years and he intended 
that it should stand as the most lasting monument to his 
memory. The first volume was published in 1855; ill- 
health delayed the completion of the second volume and it 
was not until 1859 that it was ready for publication. It 
came as a fitting close to a life of unceasing industry. 
After a long and trying sickness, borne with great equa- 
nimity of spirit, Irving died in November of the same year. 
Asa man, perhaps kindliness was Irving's main charac- 
teristic. There was nothing of self-assertion in him or of 
contempt for the wishes or the weaknesses 
Irving's Qf i^jg fellow-mcu. This side of his character 

diisposition. . n -n t i • o 1 • 1 J 

IS well illustrated by an action of his later 
years. After his return to America he was engaged upon 
a work which was to treat of the Spanish invasion of 
Mexico. He had gathered his material and had already 
begun the actual composition of the book when his atten- 
tion was called to the fact that a young man hitherto 
unknown to him, named Prescott, was engaged upon the 
same subject. After determining the seriousness of his 
rival and his ability to accomplish the task he had chosen, 
Irving generously relinquished the subject to him. As a 
result we gained Prescott 's Conquest of Mexico though we 
missed from Irving the story of a period that he was 
peculiarly fitted to treat. We cannot but feel, however, 
that one such action is worth more than a whole row of 
volumes. Throughout Irving's long and varied life, we 
do not know that he ever cherished a single enmity or 
that he was ever mixed up in any of the petty quarrels 
such as spot the lives of so many men of letters. Yet his 



26 INTRODUCTION 

amiability was due to no weakness of character or want of 
fixed opinions. The sure judgment of his own powers 
maintained in the face of a disheartening opposition, the 
uninterrupted faitlifulness to his country during a long 
residence abroad in which he had every encouragement to 
forget that country, and finally the depth and sincerity of 
the attachment of his half-dozen personal friends to him 
—these are sufficient indications of strength and individ- 
uality of character. 

The second main characteristic of the man was delicacy 
and refinement of feeling. Perhaps his was not a very 
profound or strenuous nature. He never cared to mix in 
His deucacy poHtics or in the daily concerns of a business 
and refinement life; his seusc of persoual rcpugnancc to- 
o eeimg. wards sordid details was stronger than his 
sense of the good to be accomplished through the use of 
such tools. This attitude towards the things of daily life 
is not, to be sure, very unusual, nor is it generally to be 
commended. The justification of it in Irving is to be 
found in a real and not an affected delicacy of nature. 
Irving's temperament was that of a poet — a poet of a 
tender and somewhat sentimental cast of imagination. 
Always the characteristic of his work is beauty rather 
than power. However much he may have felt in his heart 
the deeper mysteries of existence, in open life he preferred 
the play of gentler feelings and emotions. 

As a corrective to what might otherwise have proved a 
cloying sweetness of nature, Irving was possessed of a 
His sense third main characteristic — an unfailing sense 

of hamor. ^f -^j^g humorous and whimsical in life. The 

world was not tragic to him ; neither was it entirely happy. 
It was a place of mixed good and evil where one could 
rejoice at the good, sorrow at the evil, it is true, but for- 



SKETCH BOOK 27 

get it chiefly, in the distractions which a kind fate has 
put at our disposal. 

II. THE SKETCH BOOK AIs"D THE TALES OF A TRAVELLER 

Irving 's fame rests most securely upon four volumes of 
his earlier work — the Sketch Book, Bracebridge Hall, the 
Tales of a Traveller, and the Alhamhra, The most widely- 
read of these four books and the one which engages the 
most lively popular interest, has always been the Sketch 
Book. Yet in some respects the Sketch Book, taken as a 
whole, is inferior to either of the last two books of the 
group. Irving, as an essayist, frankly belongs to the 
school of Addison and nowhere in his works are the marks 
of his discipleship so evident as in parts of the Sketch 
Book. In form, in style, and even in sentiment, such 
essays as Roscoe, The Wife, The Broken Heart, A Royal Poet, 
The Wido2v and Her Son, and The Pride of the Village, 
are copies of Irving's literary models — Addison and Gold- 
smith. Likewise in those numbers descriptive of English 
customs and localities, such as The Country Church, West- 
minster Ahhey, Christmas, and the other essays of that 
group, we have essentially the method of Addison, differing 
only in that it is applied by one who stands without the 
English life which he describes. Bracehridge Hall, which 
is largely an elaboration of the Christmas essays of the 
Sketch Book, is clearly under the same influences. All of 
these sketches show literary taste and exquisite sensi- 
tiveness to literary impressions ; but no more. It was this 
characteristic of his work that led Hazlitt, the English 
c-ritic, to say of Irving a short time after the appearance of 
the Sketch Book, that his writings were **very good copies 
of our British essayists and novelists, which may be yery 



28 INTRODUCTION 

well on the other side of the water, or as proofs of the 
capabilities of the national genius, but which might be dis- 
pensed with here, where we have to boast of the originals. " ^ 

Hazlitt's ears, however, were so filled with the old note 
in the Sketch Booh, that he was deaf to what was new and 
individual in it. In Bij) Van Winkle, the Legend of 
Skejjy HoIImv, and, to a less degree, in the Spectre Bride- 
groom, we have examples of independent and original work. 
It is probably the interest of the first two of these three 
numbers of the Sketch Book that has enabled it to main- 
tain the distinguished place which it has always held among 
Irving's works. In the stories of this type Irving found 
himself; and the characteristics which mark these two 
stories are worked out, perhaps not more perfectly, but 
more consistently and with more conscious mastery of 
form,in the later volumes, the Alhamhra and the Tales of 
a Traveller. 

The first distinctive characteristic of the volumes of this 
group is one of form. In his reflective and descriptive 
essays, as has been said aboie, Irving is a manifest fol- 
lower of Addison. In his use of the short-story form in 
English, however, Irving stands a pioneer. When he began 
to write, the short story still bore upon it the marks of its 
origin ; it was either a hard, formal, didactic treatise, derived 
The Short f rom the moral apologue or fable ; or it was 

story. j^ sentimental love-tale, derived from the arti- 

ficial love-romance that followed the romance of chivalry. 
Irving took this form and made of it merely "the frame on 
which to stretch his materials." His materials w^ere not 
the old formal apologue, nor the worn-out romance of 
love, nor, again, mere ingenuity of plot and incident, but 
rather the materials which modern fiction has made specially 

1 The Spirit of the Age, p. 405. 



TALES OF A TRAVELLER 29 

its own — *Hhe play of thought, and sentiment, and lan- 
guage ; the weaving in of characters, lightly, yet expres- 
sively delineated ; the familiar and faithful exhibition of 
scenes in common life; and the half -concealed vein of 
humor that is often playing through the whole. "^ Al- 
ready in his lifetime Irving found himself "elbowed by 
men who followed his footsteps. " Hawthorne and Poe were 
his near followers, and American writers since his time 
have always favored the short-story form. But whatever 
the excellence of his successors, Irving will always^stand as 
the chief originator of one of the most characteristic forms 
of modern literature. 

A second and ever present element in the tales is humor. 
Perhaps we should not call Irving's humor characteristic- 
irving's ally American. The first notable American 

humor. humorist was Benjamin Franklin ; and in 

the mock-serious extravagance of some of his utterances we 
get strange foretastes of our latest and greatest humor- 
ist, Mark Twain. Irving's humor, perfectly individual and 
natural as it is, depends more upon the play of shades 
of feeling for its effects; it is quiet and refined, sly and 
half -concealed. At times there is also a strain of mild 
satire mingled with it, as for example, in the Stor-i/ of 
the Little Antiquary, or the Adventure of the Pojokins 
Family, both in the Tales^ of a Traveller. Usually, how- 
ever, the characters are depicted with a simple pleasure in 
their quaintness and oddities. They are sometimes exag- 
gerated to the point of grotesqueness, as, for example, 
the characters gathered together at The Hunting Dinner; 
yet the exaggeration is never carried so far as to 
take them beyond our sympathy. Dickens, who was a 
confessed admirer of Irving, probably learned something 

^Life, by P. M. Irving, II., 226. 



30 INTRODUCTION 

from this metliod in the humorous and whimsical exag- 
geration of some of his own characters. There is a touch 
also of the gruesome in some of the tales. It is prob- 
able that Irving here was somewhat influenced by his 
reading in the German romantic writers of the beginning 
of the last century. Sir AValter Scott, in his essay On 
the Supernatural in Fictitious Composition^ in which he 
points out the excellence of the German stories of this 
type, praises Irving's story of the Bold Dragoon in the 
Tales of a Traveller as the only example of the fantastic 
then to be found in English literature. But even in these 
tales of the grotesque, the main purpose is always humor- 
ous ; in the most striking example of this kind, the Story of 
the German Student^ the possible weird effect of the story 
is destroyed by its humorous conclusion. This same 
fantastic element, deepened and made more somber, 
appears again in the writings of Poe ; but we can not be 
sure here that Poe did not derive his inspiration directly 
from the writings of the same German romanticists that 
influenced Irving. 

Finally, the stories under discussion are remarkable for 
what we may call a sense of locality. Irving, perhaps bet- 
ter than any other English writer, has been able to seize 
Sense of upou the Spirit of places and fix that spirit 

locality. -^ language. It is this power which gives 

unfailing interest to such essays in the Sketch Boole as 
Westminster Abbey ^ Little Britain^ Stratford on Avon, and 
others. The same power enabled him to transfer to his 
pages the atmosphere of faded splendor in the Alhambra, 
Similarly the romantic life of Italy a hundred years ago 
is revealed to us in the banditti stories of the Tales of a 
Traveller. In many ways Irving satisfied, and still con- 
tinues to satisfy, the nalmral curiosity which the people of 



TALES OF A TRAVELLER 31 

America have always had concerning the manners and 
customs and famous places of Europe. The first ambas- 
sador whom the new world of letters sent to the old, as 
Thackeray called him, he was also the first messenger to 
bring back to this country an intelligent report of his 
embassy. 

But Irving was able not only to fix for us the places of 
the Old World with all their wealth of human association 
and story ; he accomplished the much more difficult task 
of investing the life and nature of the New World with 
the same richness of tradition that charms us in the old. 
The legends of the Ehine mean no more to the German 
than the legends of the Hudson mean to us. Just how 
far the stories of which Irving made use were traditional 
among the inhabitants of the Hudson valley, it is perhaps 
impossible to determine. But it is certain that now they 
have become for everyone who passes through that region, 
the most appropriate expression of its poetry and beauty. 
A similar achievement was the creation of that part of the 
Knickerbocker legend which centers about the city of New 
York. This field Irving first entered in his Knicher- 
hoclcer History; and again and again in later works — nota- 
bly in the Money -Diggers of the Tales of a Traveller — 
he returns to the favorite subject of his youth. In this 
subject he was always successful. The legend has in- 
vested the island of Manhattan and its surrounding waters 
with the glow of traditional romance. Knickerbocker has 
become the city's "most all-pervading and descriptive 
name"; and the humorous conception of Dutch character 
and history in the legend has become "as inseparable from 
New York as the form of the island and the encircling 
shores of the bay." In this achievement alone there is 
surety of lasting fame; for the city whose traditions 



32 INTRODUCTION 

living's pen first fashioned and enriched has itself become 
a chief monument to his memory. 

III. BIBLIOGKAPHY 

Irying's works are published in several standard editions 
by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York City. 

TJie Life and Letters of Washington Irving^ by his 
nephew, Pierre M. Irving, was published in four volumes, 
New York, 1862-64. A new edition, revised and condensed 
into three volumes, was published by the Putnams in 1895. 
This Life is of special value because it is the only place in 
which Irving's letters and travelling journal are accessible. 
A shorter life is Charles Dudley Warner's Washington 
Irving^ Boston, 1881, in the American Men of Letters 
Series. Mr. Warner also has a briefer sketch prefixed to 
the Geoffrey Crayon Edition of Irving's works; and a 
short study in a separate volume. Work of Washington 
Irving^ published by Harpers. There are few critical 
works of importance. Besides the several studies by 
Warner given above and the standard histories of Ameri- 
can literature, the following may be mentioned: George 
William Curtis, in Literary and Social Essays; Edwin 
W. Morse, in the Warner Classics Historians and Essay- 
ists (Doubieday and McClure Company), pp. 143-168; 
and, for a discussion of the national element in Irving, 
Lodge, Studies in History^ pp. 344- G. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 

KNICKERBOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

lu the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
expansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always pru- 
dently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. 
Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market- 
town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, 
but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, 
in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands 
to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be 
that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there 
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, 
which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough 
to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, 
or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that 
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

509 



510 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in 
squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 
noon time, when all nature is, peculiarly quiet, and was 
startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sab- 
bath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverber- 
ated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a 
retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its dis- 
tractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled 
life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has 
long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its 
rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 
all the neighboring country. A drowsy dreamy influence 
seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very 
atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a 
high German doctor, during the early days of the settle- 
ment; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or 
wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows there before the 
country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of 
some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds 
of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs ; 
are subject to trances and visions; and frequently see 
strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The 
whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted 
spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors 
glare oftener across the valley tljan in any other part of 
the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, 
seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 511 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this 
enchanted region, and seems to be oommander-in-chief of 
all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on 
horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the 
ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried 
away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the 
revolutionary war ; and who is ever and anon seen by the 
country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if 
on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to 
the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and 
especially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. 
Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those 
parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating 
the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the 
body of the trooper, having been buried in the church- 
yard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly 
quest of his head ; and that the rushing speed with which 
he sometimes passes along the Hollow, like a midnight 
blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to gel 
back to the church -yard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary supersti- 
tion, which has furnished materials for many a wild story 
in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known, at 
all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless 
Hc'i'seman of Sleepy Hollovr. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
nantioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the 
^ alley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who 
resides there for a time. However wide avrake they may 
have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are 
sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of 
the air, and begin to grov/ imaginative — to dream dreams, 
and see apparitions. 



612 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for 
it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and 
there embosomed in the great State of New -York, that 
population, manners, and customs, remain fixed; while 
the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is 
making such incessant changes in other parts of this rest- 
less country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like 
those little nooks of still water which border a rapid 
stream; where we may see the straw and babble riding 
quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic har- 
bor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should 
not still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
t-ating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
period of American history, that is to say, some thirty years 
since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who 
sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy 
Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the 
vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut; a State which 
supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as 
for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier 
woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of 
Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, 
but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms 
and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, 
feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole 
frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, 
and fiat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, 
and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather- 
cock, perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the 
wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 513 

on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering 
about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius 
of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow 
eloped from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, 
and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was 
most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against 
the window shutters ; so that, though a thief might get in 
with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in 
getting out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the archi- 
tect, Yust Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. 
The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant sit- 
uation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook 
running close by, and a formidable birch tree growing at 
one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' 
voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a 
drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive; inter- 
rupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the mas- 
ter, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, 
by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy 
loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to 
say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind 
the golden maxim, "Spare the rod and spoil the child." — 
Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one 
of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the 
smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he administered 
justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking 
the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on 
those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that 
winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with 



514 THE SKETCH BOOK 

indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by 
inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong- 
headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and 
swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. 
All this he called '*doing his duty by their parents;" and 
he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by 
the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that 
"he would remember it, and thank him for it the longest 
day he had to live.'* 

When school hours were over, he was even the compan- 
ion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday after 
noons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who 
happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for 
mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed 
it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. 
The revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily 
bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the 
dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his main- 
tenance, ;he was, according to country custom in those 
parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, 
whose children he instructed. With these he lived suc- 
cessively a week at a time ; thus going the rounds of the 
neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a 
cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of 
his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both use- 
ful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally 
in the lighter labors of their farms; helped to make hay; 
mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the 
<jowB from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 515 

aid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute 
sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the 
school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. 
He found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the 
children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold,^ 
W^hich whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he 
would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with 
his foot for whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighborhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to 
take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band 
of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely 
carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his 
voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation ; 
and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that 
church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, 
quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sun- 
day morning, which are said to be legitimately descended 
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little 
make-shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly 
denominated **by hook ^and by crook," the worthy peda- 
gogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all 
who understood nothing of the labor of headwork, to have 
a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance 
in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being con- 
sidered a kind of idle gentlemanlike personage, of vastly 
superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country 
swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the par- 

1 From the lUustrated alphabet of the New England Primer: 
•' The lion bold 
The lamb doth hold." 



516 THE SKETCH BOOK 

son. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some 
little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition 
of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, per- 
adventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of 
letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all 
the country damsels. How he would figure among them 
in the church -yard, between services on Sundays! gather- 
ing grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the 
surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the 
epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, with a v^^hole 
bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; 
while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly 
back, envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of trav- 
elling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip 
from house to house ; so that his appearance was always 
greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, esteemed 
by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read 
several books quite through, and was a perfect master of 
Cotton Mather's * history of New England Witchcraft, in 
which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, 
and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; 
and both had been increased by his residence in this spell- 
bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his 
capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his 
school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself 
on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that 
whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old 
Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the 

> After Jonathan Edwards, the most notable of the New England Puri- 
tan preachers. His Wonders of the Invisible World appeared in 1693. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 517 

evening made the printed page a mere mist before his 
eyes. 

Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and 
awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to 
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching 
hour, fluttered his excited imagination : the moan of the 
whip-poor-will* from the hill -side; the boding cry of the 
tree-toad, that harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of 
the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of 
birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, 
which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now 
and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness 
would stream across his path ; and if, by chance, a huge 
blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight 
against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the 
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's 
token. His only resource on such occasions, either to 
drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing 
psalm tunes; — and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as 
they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, '* in linked sweet- 
ness loDg drawn out,"^ floating from the distant hill, or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they 
sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 
spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvel- 
lous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and 
haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. 
It receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble 
those words. — [Author's Note. J 

* Quoted from Milton's L" Allegro. 



518 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping 
Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He 
would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, 
and of the direful omens and portentous sights and 
sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of 
Connecticut; and would frighten them wofully with spec- 
ulations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the 
alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, 
and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- 
dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of 
a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of 
course, no spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly pur. 
chased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. 
"What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the 
dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With what wistful 
look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming 
across the waste fields from some distant window! — How 
often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, 
which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! — How 
often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his 
own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread 
to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some 
uncouth being tramping close behind him! — and how 
often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush- 
ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was 
the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though 
he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more than 
once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely peram- 
bulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; and 
he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 519 

devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed 
by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than 
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put 
together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one even- 
ing in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, 
was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 
a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of 
fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting 
and rosy cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and uni- 
versally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast 
expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture 
of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off 
her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, 
which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from 
Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time; and 
withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the pret- 
tiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the 
sex; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a 
morsel soon found favor in his eyes ; more especially after 
he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus 
Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, 
liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either 
his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own 
farm ; but within those every thing was snug, happy, and 
well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but 
not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abun- 
dance, rather than the style in which he lived. His 
stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the 
Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree 



520 THE SKETCH BOOK 

spread its broad branches over it; at the foot of which 
bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in 
a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that bub- 
bled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the 
farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a 
church ; every window and crevice of which seemed burst- 
ing forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was 
busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swal- 
lows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves ; and 
rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watch- 
ing the weather, some with their heads under their wings, 
or buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, 
and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine 
on the roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in 
the repose and abundance of their pens; whence sallied 
forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in 
an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regi- 
ments of turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, 
and guinea fowls fretting about it, like ill-tempered house- 
wives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the 
barn door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a hus- 
band, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, clapping his burn- 
ished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and 
then generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and 
children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 
The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon this 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his 
devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roast- 
ing-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an 
apple in his mouth; the pigeons were snugly put to bed 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 521 

in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of 
crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; and 
the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married 
couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the 
porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, 
and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey but he beheld 
daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, 
peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages; and even 
bright chanticleer himself la}^ sprawling on his back, in a 
side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter 
which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the 
rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
corn, and the orchards burthened with ruddy fruit, which 
surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, 
and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they 
might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested 
in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the 
wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his 
hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with 
a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon 
loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles 
dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a 
pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Ken- 
tucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, 
with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers; the low 
projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable 
of being closed up in bad weather. Under this v/ere hung 



622 THE SKETCH BOOK 

flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for 
fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built 
along the sides for summer use; and a great spinning- 
wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed the 
various uses to which this important porch might be 
devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered 
the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion and the 
place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pew- 
ter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one 
corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in 
another a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; 
ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and 
peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled 
with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave 
him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed 
chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors ; and 
irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened 
from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges ^ and 
conch-shells decorated the mantel-piece ; strings of various 
colored birds' eggs were suspended above it: a great 
ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a 
corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense 
treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, 
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, bow- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 
the lot of a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had any 
thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like 
easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to 
make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and 

^Osage-oranges, or hedge- apples ; or yellow globular-shaped gourds? 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 523 

walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his 
heart was confined; all which he achieved as easily as a 
man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie ; 
and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart 
of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims 
and caprices, which were for ever presenting new diSi- 
culties and impediments; and he had to encounter a host 
of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numer- 
ous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart; 
keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but 
ready to fly out in the common cause against any new 
competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according 
to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of 
the country round, which rang with his feats of strength 
and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered and double- 
jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff, but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, by 
which he was universally known. He was famed for great 
knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous 
on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races 
and cock-fights ; and, with the ascendency which bodily 
strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all dis- 
putes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions 
with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. 
He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but 
had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and, 
with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong 
dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or 



524 THE SKETCH BOOK 

four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, 
and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attend- 
ing every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In 
cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, sur- 
mounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and when the folks at 
a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a 
distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, 
they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew 
would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at mid- 
night, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cos- 
sacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 
would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clat- 
tered by, and then exclaim, **Ay, there goes Brom Bones 
and his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a 
mixture of awe, admiration, and good will ; and when any 
madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, 
always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was 
at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the 
gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was 
whispered that she did not altogether discourage his hopes. 
Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival candidates 
to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his 
amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to 
Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that 
bis master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," 
within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried 
the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the compe- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 525 

tition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, 
however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance 
in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple- 
jack — yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never 
broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pres- 
sure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, 
and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 
gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character 
of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm- 
house ; not that he had any thing to apprehend from the 
meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a 
stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel 
was an easy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better 
even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an 
excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. 
His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to 
her housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she 
sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and 
must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. 
Thus while the busy dame bustled about the house, or 
plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest 
Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, 
watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, 
armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly 
fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the 
mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the 
daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, 
or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable 
to the lover's eloquence. 



526 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, 
or door of access ; while others have a thousand avenues, 
and may be captured in a thousand different ways. It is 
a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still 
greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the 
latter, for the man must battle for hi#^, for tress at every 
door and window. He who wins a thousand common 
hearts is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who 
keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette, is 
indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with 
the redoubtable Brom Bones; and from the moment 
Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the 
former evidently declined; his horse was no longer seen 
tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud 
gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have 
settled their pretensions to the lady, according to the 
mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the 
knights-errant of yore — by single combat; but Ichabod 
was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary 
to enter the lists againsts him: he had overheard a boast- 
of Bones, that he would * 'double the schoolmaster up, and 
lay him on a shelf of his own school -house;" and he was 
too wary to give him an opportunity. There was some- 
thing extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; 
it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of 
rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play oU boorish 
practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object 
of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 527 

riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; 
smoked out his singing school, by stopping up the chim- 
ney ; broke into the school-house at night, in spite of its 
formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and 
turned everything topsy-turvy: so that the poor school- 
master began to think all the witches in the country held 
their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, 
Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule 
in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog 
whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, 
and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 
psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without 
producing any material effect on the relative situation of 
the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, 
Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool 
whence he usually watched all the concerns of his little 
literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that 
sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on 
three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil 
doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen sundry 
contraband articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon 
the persons of idle urchins; such as half -munched apples, 
popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions of ram- 
pant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been 
some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his 
scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly 
whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the mas- 
ter; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned through- 
out the school- room. It was suddenly interrupted by the 
appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, 
a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mer- 
cury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half- 



528 THE SKETCH BOOK 

broken colt, whicli he managed with a rope by way of 
halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an 
invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or "quilt- 
ing frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van 
Tassels 's; and having delivered his message with that air 
of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro 
is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed 
over the brook and was seen scampering away up the 
hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, 
without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble skipped 
over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a 
smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken 
their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were 
flung aside without being put away on the shelves, ink- 
stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early 
emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, 
and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his 
locks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the 
school-house. That he might make his appearance before 
his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a 
horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a 
choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Eipper, 
and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight- 
errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in 
the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the 
looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 529 

animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that 
had outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He 
was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a 
hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted 
with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring 
and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his 
day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gunpow- 
der. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his mas- 
ter's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, 
and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit 
into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 
there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any 
young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode 
with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to 
the pommel of the saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like 
grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his 
hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, the 
motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair 
of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, 
for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called; and 
the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the 
horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his 
steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Rip- 
per, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom 
to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- 
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yel- 
low, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped 
by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 



530 THE SKETCH BOOK 

scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make 
their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel 
might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory 
nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from 
the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and 
frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious 
from the very profusion and variety around them. There 
was the honest cock -robin, the favorite game of stripling 
sportsmen, with its loud querulous note ; and the twitter- 
ing blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden- 
winged-woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad 
black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, 
with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and its little 
monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue-jay, that noisy 
coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under- 
clothes ; screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing 
and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with 
every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with 
delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides 
he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppressive 
opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and 
barrels for the market ; others heaped up in rich piles for 
the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of 
Indian com, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy 
coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty 
pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, 
turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving 
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon 
he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 531 

odor of a bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipa- 
tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, 
and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little 
dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
** sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of 
the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that, 
here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged 
the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber 
clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing 
gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the 
deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on 
the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some 
parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark -gray 
and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in 
the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail 
hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection 
of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if 
the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with 
the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old 
farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and 
breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent 
pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in 
close crimped caps, long-waisted short-gowns, homespun 
petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as 
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat. 



532 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of 
city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats 
with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair 
generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if 
they could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being 
esteemed, throughout the country, as a potent nourisher 
and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, 
a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and 
which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, 
noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of 
tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, 
for he held a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of 
a lad of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
entered the state parlor of Van TassePs mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious 
display of red and white; but the ample charms of a 
genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time 
of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various 
and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced 
Dutch housewives! There was the doughty dough-nut, 
the tenderer oly koek,^ and the crisp and crumbling 
cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and 
honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then 
there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; 
besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover 
delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and 
pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 

1 " The name means literally oil-cakes, and they were originally boiled or 
fried in oil." Oolonial Days in Old New York, Alice Earle, p. 141. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 533 

roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, 
all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have 
enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up 
its cloud of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the 
mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as 
it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his 
historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 
dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of 
almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he 
thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school- 
house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Kipper, 
and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant 
pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him com- 
rade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good humor, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions 
were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of 
the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
pressing invitation to *'fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old grayheaded negro, who had been the itinerant 
orchestra of the neighborhood for more than half a cen- 
tury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. 
The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three 
strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a 



534 THE SKETCH BOOK 

motion of the head; bowing almost to the groand, and 
stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him 
was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full 
motion, and clattering about the room, you would have 
thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the 
dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the 
admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of 
all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, 
stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every 
door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling 
their white eye-balls, and showing grinning rows of ivory 
from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be 
otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart 
was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in 
reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely 
smitten with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself 
in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over former 
times, and drawing out long stories about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, 
was one of those highly-favored places which abound with 
chronicle and great men. The British and American line 
had run near it during the war; it had, therefore, been 
the scene of marauding, and infested with refugees, cow- 
boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufiicient 
time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up 
his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indis- 
tinctness of his recollection, to make himself the hero of 
every exploit. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 535 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue 
bearded Dutchman who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breast-work, 
only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there 
was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too 
rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle 
of White-plains, being an excellent master of defence, par- 
ried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he 
absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at 
the hilt : in proof of which, he was ready at any time to 
show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were 
several more that had been equally great in the field, not 
one of whom but was persuaded that he had a considerable 
hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in 
legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and super- 
stitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled retreats; 
but are trampled under foot by the shifting throng that 
forms the population of most of our country places. 
Besides there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of 
our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their 
first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their 
surviving friends have travelled away from the neighbor- 
hood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk their 
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This 
is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts 
except in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of 
supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to 
the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in 
the very air that blew from that haunted region; it 
breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infect- 



533 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ing all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling 
cat their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and 
wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the 
unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in 
the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the 
woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, 
and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a 
storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part 
of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre 
of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been 
heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and, 
it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in 
^e church -yard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty 
elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beaming 
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends 
from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, 
between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of 
the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where 
the sunbeams seem to sleep su quietly, one would think 
that there at least the dead might r'^st in peace. On one 
side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which 
raves a large brook among broken rocks and trunks of 
fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far 
from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; 
the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly 
shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, 
even in the daytime ; but occasioned a fearful darkness at 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 537 

night. This was one of the favorite hannts of the head- 
less horseman ; and the place where he was most frequently 
encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most 
heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over 
bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached 
the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a 
skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang 
away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 
vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the 
galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, 
on returning one night from the neighboring village of 
Sing Sing,^ he had been overtaken by this midnight 
trooper ; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl 
of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat 
the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the 
church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the lis- 
teners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from 
the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He 
repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable 
author. Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous 
events that had taken place in his native State of Connect- 
icut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly 
walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered their families in their wagons, and were heard 
for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over 

1 The name has been recently changed to Ossinning. 



538 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions 
behind their favorite swains, and their light - hearted 
laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along 
the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until 
they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise and 
frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered 
behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have 
a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he was 
now on the high road to success. What passed at this 
interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not 
know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone 
wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great 
interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. — Oh 
these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been 
playing off any of her coquettish tricks? — Was her encour- 
agement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
her conquest of his rival? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — 
Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of 
one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair 
lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to 
notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often 
gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several 
hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncour- 
teously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, 
and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night ^ that Ichabod, 
heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- 
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in 
the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far 
below him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indis- 

» Hamlet, III., ii., 406. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 539 

tinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of 
a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of 
the watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but 
it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his dis- 
tance from this faithful companion of man. Now and 
then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally 
awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm- 
house away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming 
sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but 
occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps 
the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring 
marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning sud- 
denly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollec- 
tion. The night grew darker and darker; the stars 
seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds 
occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt 
so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching 
the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost 
stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an 
enormous tulip tree, which towered like a giant above all 
the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of 
landmark. Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large 
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down 
almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was 
connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was 
universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree.^ 
The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect 
and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of 

» A stone monument now marks the supposed place of Andre's capture. 



540 THE SKETCH BOOK 

its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of 
strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle : he thought his whistle was answered — it was but 
a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As 
he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw some- 
thing white, hanging in the midst of the tree — he paused 
and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, per- 
ceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed 
by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
heard a groan — his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge 
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the 
breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay 
before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- 
wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A 
few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over 
this stream. On that side of the road where the brook 
entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted 
thick with wild grapevines, threw a cavernous gloom over 
it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at 
this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap- 
tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines 
were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. 
This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and 
fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it 
alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; 
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his 
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 
dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting for- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 541 

ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, 
and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose 
fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the 
other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : it 
was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was 
only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a 
thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster 
now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs 
of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a 
suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over 
his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side 
of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the 
dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he 
beheld something huge, misshapen, black and towering. 
It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. 
The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head 
with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was 
now too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escap- 
ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon 
the wings of the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show 
of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — "Who 
are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his 
demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no 
answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflex- 
ible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the 
shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with a 
scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the 
road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the 
form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascer- 
tained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimen- 



543 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. 
He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept 
aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind 
side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright 
and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, 
that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against 
the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod 
was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — 
but his horror was still more increased, on observing that 
the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was 
carried before him on the pommel of the saddle : his terror 
rose to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows 
upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give 
his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump 
with him. Away then they dashed, through thick and 
thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every bound. 
Ichabod' s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he 
stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, 
in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 543 

Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 
with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an oppo- 
site turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. 
This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees 
for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 
famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 
knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he 
had got half way through the hollow, the girths of the 
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. 
He seized it by the pommel, and endeavored to hold it 
firm, but in vain; and he had just time to save himself by 
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by 
his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Rip- 
per's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his Sunday 
saddle; but this was no time for petty fears; the goblin 
was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he 
was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes 
slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes 
jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back -bone, with a 
violence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. 
, An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering 
reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told 
him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the 
church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recol- 
lected the place where Brom Bones 's ghostly competitor 
had disappeared. '4f I can but reach that bridge,'** 
thought Ichabod, '*I am safe." Just then he heard the 

» Because witches cannot cross running water. See Bums's Tarn 
O'Shanter. 



544 THE SKETCH BOOK 

black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he 
even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another con- 
vulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon 
the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he 
gained the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look 
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw 
the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of 
hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge 
the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled head- 
long into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and 
the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 
ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not 
make his appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but 
no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school-house, and 
strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; but no school- 
master. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasi- 
ness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An 
inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation 
they came upon his traces. In one part of the road lead- 
ing to the church was found the saddle trampled in the 
dirt; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, 
where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of 
the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundje which con- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 545 

tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts 
and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of 
worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; 
a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs' ears; 
and a broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture 
of the school-house, they belonged to the community, 
excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New 
England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune- 
telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scrib- 
bled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a 
copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. 
These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith 
consigned to the flames by Hans Van Eipper; who from 
that time forward determined to send his children no more 
to school ; observing that he never knew any good to come 
of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the 
schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's 
pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his 
person at the time of his disapj^earance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been 
found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they had 
diligently considered them all, and compared them with 
the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, 
and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried 
off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and 
in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
about him. The school was removed to a different quarter 
of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his 
stead. 



546 THE SKETCH BOOK 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; 
that he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of 
the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortifi- 
cation at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; 
that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the 
country; had kept school and studied law at the same 
time, had been admitted to the bar, turned politician, 
electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court.* Brom Bones 
too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted 
the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story 
of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty 
laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to 
suspect that he knew more about the matter than he 
chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges 
of these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was 
spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite 
story often told about the neighborhood round the winter 
evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object 
of superstitious awe, and that may be the reason why the 
road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house 
being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be 
haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and 
the ploughboy, loitering homeward of a still summer even- 
ing, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chant- 

* A court haviug jurisdiction in cases not involving mora tbaa ten 
poiinds. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 547 

ing a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes 
of Sleepy Hollow. 

POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in 
which I heard it related at the Corporation meeting of the 
ancient city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its 
sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleas- 
ant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, 
with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected 
of being poor, — he made such efforts to be entertaining. When 
his story was concluded, there was much laughter and approba- 
tion, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had 
been asleep a greater part of the time. There was, however, one 
tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who 
maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout : now and 
then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon 
the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of 
your wary men, who never laugh, but upon good grounds— when 
they have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of 
the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, 
he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the 
other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage 
motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the 
moral of the stQry, and what it went to prove? 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his 
lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, 
looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, 
lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed, that the story 
was intended most logically to prove : — 

"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 

"That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it. 

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of 
a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the 
state." 



548 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of 
the syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed 
him with something of a triumphant leer. At length, he 
observed, that all this was very well, but still he thought the 
story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points 
on which he had his doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I 
don't believe one-half of it myself . " D. K. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

1794-1878 



[For Questions on the Life of Bryant and 
on Thanatopsis see pages 107, 108 of Marsh 
and Royster's Manual for teaching English 
Classics, bound in this volume.] 



INTRODUCTION 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

William Cullen Bryant virtually belongs, like Irving 
and Cooper, to New York, though he was a native of 
New England and wrote his earliest poetry there. He 
was born in the autumn of 1794 in the little town of 
Cummington, where the north fork of the Westfield 
River goes "brawling over a bed of loose stones in a very 
narrow valley" in the semi-mountainous region of western 
Massachusetts. He was the second of seven children. 
His ancestors had been Americans for generations, several 
of them having been among the passengers of the May- 
flower. His father was a physician and surgeon, of 
abilities quite beyond the small country practice with 
which he contented himself ; he also served several terms 
in the state legislature. His mother was a model house- 
wife, equally adept, as her diary shows, at "teaching 
Cullen his letters" and "making him a pair of breeches." 

The boy's early schooling was carried on at home and 
at the district school. At home he had the use of a 
library exceptionally fine for that time and place, con- 
taining, as it did, most of the world's classics from Plu- 
tarch to Shakspere, together with such English classics 
as Gibbon, Johnson, and Wordsworth. His outdoor 
sports were many, — trout-fishing, squirrel-hunting, and 
snow-balling; and there were the time-honored devices 
for turning work into play at the seasons of making 

3 



4 INTRODUCTION 

maple-syrup and cider, and husking corn. Barn-raisings 
and singing-schools varied the diversions. Few of these 
things, however, found their way into young Cullen's 
verses — for he began to write verses in his ninth year. 
Boy-like, he was ambitious of greater themes and sought 
exercise in paraphrasing the Book of Job, or in cele- 
brating an eclipse in turgid lines : — 

"How awfully sublime and grand to see 
The lamp of Day wrapped in Obscurity!" 

Of course, in this juvenile verse, the sun's ray is 
"genial," birds "sit upon the spray," "stillness broods," 
and so forth. It is difficult now to understand how 
people of taste could ever delight in such cimcumlocu- 
tions as "the lamp of day" or such stately phraseology as 
"to see the sun remove behind the moon." But so it 
was. The English poetic models upon which Bryant 
formed his taste were full of this sort of thing, and he 
naturally caught the manner. Unfortunately, it was a 
manner from which he never, even in his best work, 
entirely escaped. At the age of thirteen he wrote a poem 
that was published at Boston (1808) in pamphlet form. 
It was a political satire in five hundred lines, called The 
Embargo^ and was aimed at the unpopular policy of 
Jefferson's administration in closing our ports to foreign 
commerce because of certain disputes with Great Britain. 
In it the President was held up to scorn along with Error 
and Faction and other monsters that made "injured Com- 
merce weep." There was sufficient reason why the poem 
should be popular then, though there is no reason why it 
should be remembered now except as the work of a very 
precocious little boy. 

He was sent away to an uncle to learn Latin; then to a 



THANATOPSIS 5 

minister in a neighboring township, where he paid a dol- 
lar a week for his bodily and mental fare, the former 
chiefly bread and milk, the latter Greek and mathematics. 
In the fall of 1810 he went to Williams College, where he 
remained seven months. This completed his schooling. 
He made some preparation for continuing his studies at 
Yale, but his father was unable to send him there, and he 
had to content himself with chanting Greek choruses 
among the Hampshire hills, or making his own first essays 
at poetry. 

It was during a ramble among these hills in the autumn 
of 1811, when he was not yet quite seventeen years old, 
that the conception of Tlianatopsis ("Vision of Death") 
came to him; and the composition immediately followed. 
He had been reading Blair's poem, Tlie Grave^ and certain 
verses of Kirke White's and Southey's, and these may 
have helped to suggest the somber theme of his own 
poem; but the immediate inspiration came from the 
autumnal scene around him, the subdued colors of earth 
and sky, the bare branches, the fallen leaves, and the 
decaying trunks of the forest trees. He went home and, 
sitting at his father's desk, began to write in the middle 
of a line ; 

''Yet a few days, and thee 

The all-beholding sun shall see no more 

In all his course." 

He broke off, almost as abruptly, in the middle of the 
forty-ninth line, and left the poem in a pigeon-hole of the 
desk. There it was afterward found by his father, who 
had always taken a sympathetic interest in his poetical 
exercises, and who realized at once that this was a good 
poem, though it is doubtful whether even a father's pride 
enabled him to realize Just how good. He at least thought 



6 INTRODUCTION 

it worthy to be offered to the North American Review^ 
It is interesting to turn to that old number of the Review 
and read the poem in its first form. We miss the familiar 
beginning : — 

"To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language." 

We miss also the homily at the close, which, although not 
the best part of the poem, is the most frequently 
quoted: — 

' *So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 

These additions were made when Bryant published his 
first thin volume of poems in 1821, and a few further 
changes were made afterward. But the central theme, 
the universality of death, was fully set forth in the orig- 
inal form and required no changes to make it complete. 
This youth in his seventeenth year had quite uncon- 
sciously produced a poem which none of the brilliant 
galaxy of poets then ascendant in England would have 
been ashamed to own. If it be true, as has been said, 
that no American boy can afford not to read Benjamin 
Franklin's AiitobiograjyJiyj it is almost equally true that 
no one who cares to cultivate a love of the best in poetry 
can afford not to learn by heart the eighty-one lines of 
Thmiatopsis. 



THANATOPSIS V 

Of course the anonymous, fragmentary-looking bit of 

verse brought no immediate fame to Bryant, who was 

industriously preparing himself for the very practical life 

he was destined to lead. He read law, and in 1815 was 

licensed to practice. The celebrated lines To a Waterfotol 

were the outcome of an incident of this stage in his 

career. He was walking to a neighboring village with 

the object of finding a place to open a law office, and 

chanced to observe the flight of a lone bird across the 

evening sky. 

* 'Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way ?" 

He fancied he saw in this uncompanioned voyage along 
*'that pathless coast, the desert and illimitable air," a 
likeness to his own situation, and, full of the forebodings 
natural to a young man when first confronting the world, 
he sought to derive from it consolation : — 

"He who from zone to zone 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 
Will lead my steps aright." 

After some years of practice at Great Barrington, and 
after his marriage, which followed upon the lyrical pre- 
lude of ''Oh fairest of the rural maids," Bryant deter- 
mined to abandon the law, partly because of his disgust at 
learning that in that profession mere technicalities could 
sometimes defeat justice, and partly because he longed 
for larger opportunities. 

In 1825 he went to New York and entered upon what 
proved to be his lifelong career — journalism. He suc- 
ceeded rather slowly at first, but after his connection with 



8 INTRODUCTION 

the Eve7img Post, and especially after his succession to 
the chief editorship of that journal, his fortunes rapidly- 
mended. He not only made the Evening Post a news- 
paper of the highest rank, but by the purity of his life 
and ideals, and the courage with which he always espoused 
what he believed to be the right, he sensibly elevated the 
somewhat low tone of the American press, and exercised 
a profound and wholesome influence upon American 
politics and public life. He lived and acted in the full 
conviction that, in his own words, 

"Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 
The eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 
And dies among his worshippers." 

For fifty years he faithfully performed the exacting 
duties that fell to him, finding change and rest in half a 
dozen voyages to Europe, or in such hours of retirement 
as he could snatch at the old Cummington homestead, or 
at the beautiful suburban residence he had provided for 
himself at Roslyn, Long Island. From time to time he 
gathered his fugitive verses and published a slender vol- 
ume. Late in life, too, he sought relief from more 
strenuous duties by translating the Iliad and the Odyssey 
into the blank verse of which he rightly felt himself to be 
a master. The translations are a little cold, but for 
faithfulness and majesty they rank among the best that 
have been made. These were finished in 1871. For 
nearly seven years more the poet's mental activity kept 
pace with his bodily vigor, until the fatal fall, iu his 
eighty-fourth year, on the stone steps of General Wilson's 
house, just after he had delivered a public address on 
Mazzini, in the hot sun at Central Park. He died after 



THANATOPSIS 9 

two weeks of semi-consciousness and was buried at 
Roslyn. 

Thanatopsis remains, first and last, his great achieve- 
ment — in form a perfect example of English blank verse, 
of which he alone among American writers has attained 
to any real mastery; in substance an epitome of his 
powers, with its lofty imagination and its musings upon 
the themes of nature and death. It biirely escapes, too, 
his besetting melancholy, though, on the whole, it is 
more consoling than depressing, with the benign presence 
of Nature felt through it all, and sweet, 

"Strange intimations of invisible things 
Which, while they seem to sadden, give delight, 
And hurt not, but persuade the soul to prayer."* 

It has been called a pagan poem, with no ray of Christian 
hope or promise of immortality. The mere absence of 
these things does not |make it pagan; yet if any one is 
left unsatisfied with the spirit of reverence that breathes 
through its lines, he may find a complement in Tlie Flood 
of Yeai'Sy that majestic chant written in the poet's 
eighty-second year. Together the two poems make a 
perfect confession of faith, and mark both verges of a life 
and genius that for purity and consecration it would be 
hard to find excelled. 

* R. H. Stoddard : The Dead Master. 



THANATOPSIS 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice. — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 

11 



12 THANATOPSIS. 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 

All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 

Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods — rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. 

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations all 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears'no sound. 

Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there: 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them down 

In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 



THANATOPSIS 13 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will langh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. 

By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innuni'erable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams, 



A MANUAL 



FOR 



TEACHING ENGLISH CLASSICS 



BY 



GEORGE L. lyiARSH 

ASSOCIATE IN ENGLISH, THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 
(UNIVERSITY EXTENSION) 



JAMES F. ROYSTER 

OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO 



CHICAGO 
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 

1904 



COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY 
SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY 



PREFACE 

The questions, topics for themes, and suggestions for study in 
this volume are based upon the editions of the respective books 
in the Lake English Classics (Scott, Foresman and Company, 
Chicago). All page references are made to the edition of the 
book in this series, unless otherwise indicated. The general 
order of study of each book, adopted solely for uniformity and 
convenience, and not because it is recommended as a desirable 
order of treatment for the teacher, is as follows: (1) life of 
the author and other matter contained in the editor's Intro- 
duction, which can be treated apart from the work in question ; 
(2) the text of the book itself, including content, characters, 
style, etc. 

It is not intended that the questions and suggestions on any 
one book shall be exhaustive. Sometimes they are only supple- 
mentary to questions already given in the text books. Often 
those upon one book may be profitably applied in part to an- 
other book. Questions on mere matters of explanation of the 
text are seldom given. It is believed, however, that all the 
material relating to the several books will be found suggestive, 
and — assuming that the text is first understood — will generally 
bring out the points which can most profitably be studied in 
secondary schools. It should be remembered that this volume 
is intended for the teacher rather than the pupil, and while 
many of the questions and theme topics may be used directly in 
the class room, some of the material is suggestive for the 
teacher, and is intended to be inspiring and directive in the way 
of personal preparation. 

The order in which the books appear in the Manual has been 

suggested by their adaptability to the student's development and 

increasing ability to appreciate and understand them. The 

material on each book is so prepared that any change from this 

order will not affect its value. 

George L. Marsh 

James F. Royster 
June 1, 1902 



PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION 

A second edition of this Manual is made necessary by the 
publication of six additional books in this series. The methods 
pursued in preparing the questions and suggestions are the same 
as defined in the preface to the first edition. 

We wish to acknowledge with thanks our indebtedness to 
Prof. A. H. To! man for suggestions in the preparation of the 
questions on the plays of Shakspere. 

George L. Marsh 
James F. Royster 
February i, 1904 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Last of the Mohicans— Cooper 7 

Tales of a Traveller, with Selections from The Sketch 

Book — Irving 11 

Ivan HOE— aSco^^ 16 

Silas Marner— (reorgre Eliot ..22 

The Merchant of YBmcE—Shakspere .... 25 

The Vicar of WAKBFiEhD— Goldsmith .... 29 

The Lady of the Lake— ^co<^ 32 

The Sir Roger De Coverley Papers, from the Spectator 

— Addison 35 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner— CoZeWdgre 



( 



39 
The Vision of Sir Launfal— Lo?t'eZZ 

The House of the Seven G abides— Hawthorrie . . 42 

The Lay of the Last Minstrel— ^Scofi ... 46 

Julius Caesar — Shakspere 49 

Essay on Burns— CarZ?/Ze ...... 52 

Palamon and Arcite, of The Knight's Tale from Chaucer 

— Dryden 55 

The Iliad of Homer. Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV— Pope 58 

Essays on Milton and Addison— il/ctcaztZa^/ ... 61 
Minor Poems. L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus, Lycidas 

— Milton 64 

Revolt of the Tartars, or Flight of the Kalmuck Khan 

and His People from the Russian Territories to the 

Frontiers of China — De Quincey 67 

Marmion— A^cof^ 70 

The Princess — Tennyson 73 

Macbeth— /S^/iafcspere 76 

Speech ON Conciliation WITH America — Burke ... 80 

Paradise Lost, Books I and 11— Milton .... 84 

Poems and Tales, Selected~Poe 87 



6 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Twice Told Tales — Hawthorne 92 

Ag You Like iT—Shakspere ...'.. 96 

Hamlet — Shakspere IOC) 

Twelfth Night — Shakspere ..... 103 

Th an ATOPSis— Br 2/ani 107 



TEACHER^S MANUAL 

FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. James Fenimore Cooper. Edited 
by Edwin Herbert Lewis, Ph.D., Associate Professor iu Lewis Institute. 
Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 430. 40 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Preface. 

Map of Region between Sara- 
toga Lake and Lake George. 
Cooper's Life and Work. 

The Life of Cooper: 

Relate the most important 
facts of Cooper's life . (pp. 
7-11). 

What was the condition of 
central and western New 
York at the time of Cooper's 
birth? 

How did the life of his boy- 
hood and youth prepare him 
for the sort of work which 
afterwards made him fa- 
mous? 

Had the American Indian and 
pioneer appeared in fiction 
before Cooper's time? 

What was the state of Ameri- 
can fiction at this time 
(p. 7)? 

How were the last years of 
Cooper's life made unpleas- 
ant? 



Suggestions for Study. 
Author's Introduction. 
Text. 



What of his personal qualities 
(pp. 10, 11)? 

The Plot: 

What is the main purpose of 
the first chapter of the story? 

In the second, third, and 
fourth chapters the author 
lays the groundwork for the 
development of the plot, in- 
troduces the principal char- 
acters, and puts the action 
under way. Study carefully 
all the details of these chap- 
ters. 

What are the ladies' reasons 
for suspecting Magna? 

What is the author's purpose 
in turning the conversation 
in this direction? 

Is there any connection be- 
tween the conversation of 
the scout and the two In- 



teacheb's manual 



dians and that of the Major's 
party before the two parties 
come together? 

What is the first actual step 
in the complication of the 
plot? 

What is the full implication 
of "Uncas is right," etc. 
(p. 61, 1. 31) in regard to 
Uncas (cf. p. 74, 1. 13 and 
p. 103, 1. 26, p. 144, U. 12 ff.)? 

Work out this line of the plot 
as the story is read. 

Study from first to last to dis- 
cover what is the attitude 
of each of the sisters to 
Duncan. Do they both love 
him? 

Study also his attitude to- 
ward the sisters. 

Does he show any preference 
before the announcement of 
it (p. 199)? 

Is the revelation (p. 200) that 
Cora has negro blood in her 
a complete surprise, or have 
there been incidents given 
that prepare for the an- 
nouncement? Note also such 
points as show whether or 
not Cora kntows of this blood 
in her. 

What influence has this fact 
on the outcome of the story 
— on bringing about, or neces- 
sitating, the particular form 
of denouement that the story 
has? 

Make a map of the movement 
of the action from place to 
place. 



What betrayed the presence 
of the party at Glens Falls? 

What striking turn of situa- 
tion does Chapter IX. con- 
tain? Describe the rescue on 
the mound. 

Discuss the author's manage- 
ment of the arrival of the 
party at Fort William 
Henry. 

What development of the 
story takes place between 
the entrance of the party to 
the Fort and the surrender 
of the Fort? 

Do these developments justify 
so much space as is taken 
up by the author? 

What is the'author's purpose 
in introducing the scene be- 
tween Montcalm and Magna 
on the night before the sur- 
render of the Fort; (p. 212). 

What artistic reason is there 
for the author's not going 
more fully into the descrip- 
tion of the massacre of Fort 
William Henry? 

What was the difference of 
opinion between Hawkeye 
and the Indians as to the 
manner of following the 
trail of the captives from 
William Henry? What does 
this reveal as to the differ- 
ence between the mental 
processes of these charac- 
ters? 

How is the presence of the 
hostile Indians on Lake 
George accounted for? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



Is there any improbability 
either in the fact that 
Hawkeye's party did regain 
the captives' trail west of 
Lake George, or in the par- 
ticular circumstances of 
doing it? What do you 
think, from the way the 
author manages the situa- 
tion, is his opinion as to the 
improbability? 

Discuss the regaining of the 
hidden trail by means of 
the footprints in the stream 
bed — its probability, etc. 
(p. 268 ff.)- 

What is the author's purpose 
in having Duncan wonder 
at the beaver village and 
the lone Indian, David (pp. 
273 ff.)? 

Discuss the plan of the rescue 
of the sisters — the probabil- 
ity and improbability of 
its success. 

How is the incident of the 
sick woman made to seem 
not merely a device of the 
author to bring Duncan to 
Alice? 

The presence of Hawkeye 
seems necessary for the res- 
cue of Alice. How is his 
presence accounted for? 

Why did he not go, as was 
agreed, to the village of the 
Dela wares in search of 
Cora? 

Compare the conduct of 
Hawkeye in merely gag- 
ging Magna (p. 325) with 



his conduct on the knoll (p. 
145) and at Magua's first 
escape (p. 59). Compare it 
also with his advice to Dun- 
can (p. 286, 11. 9-11). Explain 
Hawkeye's clemency. 
Discuss the rescue of Uncas. 
Justify, if you can, the use 
made of David in this res- 
cue. 
Why did the Delawares re- 
gard the council (Chapters 
XXVIII., XXIX.) so very 
important? 
What effect is produced by 
the introduction of the aged 
chief? 
What artistic reasons are 
there for not letting Magna 
go home without Cora or 
any of the captives, thus 
bringing the story to a 
happy close? 
What is Heyward's motive in 
wrangling over the name 
La Longue Carabine? Was 
he successful? 
How did Uncas secure the re- 
versal of the decision of 
Tamenund as to all the pris- 
oners except Cora? 
Why did he not secure her 

release also? 
Interpret to the full extent 
the silence of Uncas (p. 385) 
and his departing speech to 
Magua (p. 390). 
What is the most dramatic 
point in this dramatic chap- 
ter (XXX.)? 
Describe the Indian battle. 



10 



teacher's manual 



Discuss the artistic effect of 
having Cora and Uncas 
killed. 

Is there any reason why 
Hawkeye and not another 
should have killed Magna? 

Discuss in detail the burial 
(Chapter XXXIII). 

Who is the hero of the book? 

Your reasons? 

Why is David Gamut intro- 
duced into the story?^ 

Is General Monroe's part nat- 
ural? 

Discuss his conduct. 

Characters : 

The teacher should read Miss 
May Estelle Cook's pamphlet, 
(see list of books in Appen- 
dix to this volume), which 
presents a practical method 
of teaching the novel, begin- 
ning with character. 

Pick out from the above ques- 
tions those about Hawkeye. 
In answering these questions 
(or some of them) the pupil 
will see that he tells some- 
thing about Hawkeye's char- 
cicter. Is there any impor- 
tant point in hiscliaracter not 
brought out in the questions? 
State such point or points. 
Combine all you have said 
about Hawkeye's character 
into an essay. 

In the same way, you may 
gather from the questions 
and from a review of the 
book, statements about each 



of the following characters : 
Hey ward. Magna, Uncas, 
Gamut, Cora, Alice. 

Combine the statements about 
each into an essay. 

What is your favorite charac- 
ter? 

Do you think this was Coop- 
er's favorite, too? Why? 

Are all the striking charac- 
teristics of this character 
necessary for the plot — or are 
some put in for the sake of 
character? Specify. 

Have you ever read about the 
heroes mentioned on p. 12? 

Do you like any of them bet- 
ter than the characters in 
this book? 

For other questions, see pp. 
13 and 14. 

Make a list of scenes described 
by Cooper. 

Compare them with places 
you know. 

Point out parts of the story 
the editor had in mind 
when writing p. 11. 

Style: 

Discuss Cooper's power to por- 
tray great emotion (p. 321, 
Chapter XXXIII). 

Discuss Cooper's power to de- 
scribe inanimate nature, his 
power to describe vigorous 
action, his power to hold 
the interest of his reader 
with his narrative. 

What is his particular excel- 
lence? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



11 



TALES OF A TRAVELLER, with SELECTIONS FROM THE SKETCH 
BOOK. Washington Irving. Edited by George Philip Krapp, Ph.D., 
Instructor in Teachers' College, Columbia University. Chicago: Scott, 
Foresman and Company, pp. 551. 40 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Pbbfaob. 
Contents. 
Introduction. 
I. Biography. 

Irving and his literary 

friends. 
American Literature before 

Irving. 
Irving's birth. 
Irving's first trip up the 

Hudson 
Attempts at law. 
First journey to Europe. 
Admission to the bar. 
Salmagundi. 
Knickerbocker History., 
Death of Miss Hoffman. 
Business difficulties. 
Sketch Book. 
Its success. 

Publication in England. 
Bracehridge Halt and Tales 

of a Traveller. 
Life in Spain. 
The return home. 
Last works and death. 
Irving's disposition. 

Life of Irving: 

When and where was he born? 

"Where were his early years 
spent? 

Describe some of the occupa- 
tions of his youth which, in 
your opinion, had an influ- 
ence on his literary work 
(pp. 12, 13). 

What was the extent of his 
education? 

For what profession did he 
study? With what success? 

Mention any incidents of his 



His delicacy and refine 

ment of feeling. 
Hisi sense of humor. 
IL The Sketch Book and the Tales 
of a Traveller. 
The short story. 
Irving's humor. 
Sense of locality. 
III. Bibliography. 
Table of Chief Dates in Irving's 

Life. 
Tales of a Traveller. 

Part First — Strange Stories by a 

Nervous Gentleman. 
Part Second— Buckthorne and His 

Friends. 
Part Third— yy^e Italian Ban- 
ditti. 
Part Fovacth— The Money-Dig- 
gers. 
Selections from the Sketch 
Book. 

The Legend of Sleepy Hol- 
low. 
Rip Van Winkle. 
Word Index, 



first trip to Europe (1804) 
whi^li may have had an 
influence on the Tales of a 
Ti^aveller (p. 15). 

Tell something of the extent 
and duration of Irving's later 
travels. 

What positions did he hold in 
the diplomatic service of the 
United States? 

Where did he live and what 
was his occupation after re- 
turning to America? 

When did he die? 



12 



teacher's manual 



His Works: 

What was his first important 
literary venture (p. 16)? Its 
success? 

What is said about the pur- 
pose, tone, and effect of the 
Knickerbocker History (pp. 
17, 18)? 

When and under what cir- 
cumstances was the Sketch 
Book written? 

Compare with the circum- 
stances under whicli most of 
Scott's novels were written. 

What was the success of the 
Sketch Book ? Its results for 
Irving? 

When did the Tales of a 
Traveller appear? With what 
success (p. 23)? 

What important works re- 
sulted from Irving's sojourn 
in Spain? 

What are the most important 
works which he wrote after 
his return to America? 

What, in general, was the 
condition of American liter- 
ature before Irving began to 
write (p. 10)? 

What foreign recognition did 
he secure for it (see many 
places in Introduction)? 

Name several of the most im- 
portant of Irving's literary 
friends (p. 9). 

What works of theirs have you 
read (e. g. in your Reader)? 

What famous English authors 
were Irving's models in his 
essays? 



What is said, however, about i 
his essential originality (pp. ] 
28, 29)? 

What is the most prominent 
characteristic of the tales 
(p. 29)? 

Illustrate by three examples 
not mentioned in the Intro- 
duction. 

Tales of a Traveller: Let 
the stories be read as stories. 

Notice the machinery of the 
book: In the first part 
Irving as Geoffrey Crayon 
introduces "the nervous 
gentleman," who tells of 
"the hunting dinner, " quot- 
ing in turn from the differ- 
ent guests there. Trace any 
similar devices in other parts 
of the book. 

What views does Irving ex- 
press in "To the Reader," 
as to the giving of morals 
in stories? 

Do you find that he offends in 
this respect in this book? 

What was Irving's own opin- 
ion of this book (p. 23)? 

"Strange Stories by a Nervous 
Gentleman' \- — 

Point out different ways in 
"The Adventure of My Un- 
cle" in which we are led to 
expect a supernatural vis- 
itor. 

Summarize points of contrast 
between "The Adventure of 
my Uncle," and "the Adven- 
ture of my Aunt." 

In what ways is the telling of 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



13 



"The Bold Dragoon" made 
to seem appropriate to the 
character of the person who 
tells it? 

What effect has the final state- 
ment in "The Adventure of 
the German Student," re- 
garding the student's being 
in a mad-house (p. 88)? 

What is the purpose of the 
telling of "The Adventure 
of the Mysterious Picture'"? 
Of "The Adventure of the 
Mysterious Stranger"? 

Find other examples farther 
on of stories within stories? 
Is the device ever carried so 
far as to become confus- 
ing? 

Do you detect any apparent 
affectation in "The Story of 
the Young Italian"? Is there 
anything in his character to 
account for it? 
See editor's note on p. 141. 

"Buckthorne and His 
Friends'"': — 

Note all bits of literary criti- 
cism here which seem to ex- 
press Irving's own opinions. 

What interesting comment is 
there on the literary fash- 
ions of Irving's time (pp.147, 
165, etc.)? 

Point out in ' 'The Poor-Devil 
Author" some of the best 
examples you find of irony 
or mock seriousness. 

In "Buckthorne" what inter- 
esting comment is there on 
public schools (p. 189)? 



How seriously can you take 
Irving's remarks on the 
poetical temperament (p. 
190 and frequently after- 
ward) ? 

Is the way in which "Sacha- 
rissa" always turns up at 
the wrong time (p. 215 and 
later) natural and probable? 

By what sort of allusions is 
"The Strolling Manager" 
made to seem in character? 

What is the effect on the 
reader of the half promise 
at the end of "Buckthorne 
and His Friends"? 

''The Italian Banditti' \- — 

What striking contrasts does 
Irving show in the charac- 
ter of the Englishman? 

In "The Belated Travellers" 
is the constraint of the 
Polish count's daughter and 
the Spanish p r i n c e s s's 
nephew sufficiently ac- 
counted for? 

Notice throughout these sto- 
ries how the English and 
Italian characters are differ- 
entiated. 

Notice how vivid descriptions 
add to the effectiveness of 
the stories. 

Point out, in "The Story of 
the Bandit Chieftain," two 
or three of the best descrip- 
tions both of persons and of 
places. 

See question on p. 350. 

How do the comments of the 
author add to the effective* 



14 



teacher's manual 



ness of "The Story of the 
Young Robber"? 

"J7ie Money-Diggers^'' : — 

What differences in style 
and method do you find in 
these tales, compared with 
the preceding, due to the 
fact that they are supposed 
to be related by Diedrich 
Knickerbocker (learned foot- 
notes, familiar Dutch refer- 
ences, etc.)? 

Tell in the briefest form con- 
sistent with completeness, 
the story of "The Devil and 
Tom Walker." 

How is nature used in "The 
Adventure of the Black 
Fisherman" — and just be- 
fore — to heighten the eflfec- 
tiveness of the strange 
events related? 

What effect has Irving's non- 
committal method of sug- 
gesting various practical 
solutions for events that 
seem supernatural, as near 
the end of "The Adventure 
of the Black Fisherman"? 

Selections from the Sketch 

Book: 
"Rip Van Winkle'''': — 
What is the purpose of the 

introductory description of 

the Kaatskills? 
What are the most important 

dramatic situations which 

you find in this story? 
What effect is intensified by 

having Rip's return take 



place at the time of an elec- 
tion? 

How is the supernaturalism of 
the tale modified or qualified? 

Write character sketches of 
Rip and his wife, and an 
account of the game of ten- 
pins in the Kaatskills. 

"The Legend of Sleepy Hol- 
low'':— 

What was Irving's purpose 
in making the scene of this 
story a place like Sleepy Hol- 
low? 

Are all the details about Icha- 
bod Crane essential to the 
development of the story? 

What justification is there 
for them? 

How are we prepared by the 
character of Ichabod for 
the climax of the story (pp. 
516, 517)? By the character 
of Brom Bones (pp. 523-24)? 

Is the apparently supernatural 
end of the story actuallj'^ ex- 
plained, or is explanation 
only hinted at? 

Write a description and a 
character sketch of Ichabod, 
and tell in your own words 
the tale of the Headless 
Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

Irving's Style: 

Irving's style is justly re- 
garded as a model. It may 
safely be used as such. 

The following topics will sug- 
gest others that may lead to 
style through imitation : 



FOR THE LAKE EITGLISH CLASSICS 



15 



describe some village of your 
neighborhood (cf. pp. 486-87). 

Describe some place you 
know, that you have been 
reminded of in reading Ir- 
ving (pp. 389, 400, 417, etc.). 

Joes Rip Van Winkle remind 
you of any one you have 
ever seen? Tell about him. 

low would Rip Van Winkle 
or Black Sam feel, do you 

think, at River or 

in woods (use local 

names)? Tell about their 
taking a walk there. 

3o you know any spot where 
a person might feel like hid- 
ing treasure? 

^ame some of the other places 
and persons that you have 
been reminded of, and tell 
about two or three of them. 

i?7rite an essay on: "Some 
People Mr. Irving Ought to 
Have Known"; "Some 
Places Mr. Irving Would 
Have Liked to Visit." 

Cell about a man who in some 
way falls asleep for some 
years and then wakes up to 
find everything changed ; 
make him different from Rip 
(a hard - working business 
man possibly), make him 
interested in the things 
changed and the change, 
and bring the sleep on in 
another way (sickness, blow 
on the head). 

iVrite a story in which a hard- 
hearted money lender, like 



Tom Walker (p. 414), is car- 
ried away and returns to 
find his valuables nothing 
but cinders. 

Tell about a company you 
know and how one story 
brought out another. 

Questions of such relativity 
as range of vocabulary had 
best be taken up in connec- 
tion with the work in com- 
position. 

For range of vocabulary cf. 
Herrick and Damon, pp. 
110 ff. Let the student re- 
produce a page of Irving 
from memory ; so far as pos- 
sible the matter should be 
fresh without his remember- 
ing the form. Now let him 
compare. Let the class pick 
out in a short paragraph the 
words they cannot or do not 
use. Let them give the near- 
est synonyms they know. 
Then let them do some dic- 
tionary work. In such de- 
scriptions as pp. 291-94 let 
them pick out the words 
used to express the same 
thing (variety). Compar- 
ison with other authors is 
hardly profitable. How- 
ever, Irving's descriptions 
may be compared with those 
in a geography to show that 
Irving uses a class of words 
(emotional) not there em- 
ployed; similarly with his- 
tory. 

For choice of words cf . Herrick 



16 



teacher's manual 



and Damon, Chapters XV 
and XVI. Let the teacher 
from time to time pick out 
one or two points here for 
illustration and ask the 
pupils to illustrate them 
from Irving (or whatever 
author is being read). 

All dictionary work and study 
of synonyms will awaken 
the student to both range 
of vocabulary and choice of 
words. 

Which of the stories in this 



volume seems to you mosv 

humorous? 
What can you say as to Ir 

ving's range of vocabulary 
His choice of words? 
Is his style stiff, or colloquial 
Is it ever unpleasantly col 

loquial? 
Note expressions unfamiliar 

to you. 
Is the style reserved, or famil 

iar? 
Is it ever obscure and hard t( 

follow? 



IVANHOE. Sir Walter Scott. Edited by William Edward Simonds, Ph.D. 
Professor of English Literature, Knox College. Chicago: Scott, Fores 
man and Company. pp. 620. 45 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction. 

I. Biographical Sketch. 

Ancestry. 
Childhood. 
Schooldays. 
Professional career. 
Literary labors. 
The novels. 
Ivanhoe. 
Later years. 

II. The Study of the Novel. 

The aim of story-telling is 
to give pleasure. 

The setting and the situa- 
tion. 

(Questions on the life of Scott, 
applicable in part at least 
to the Lake edition of Ivan- 
hoe, may be found under 
The Lady of the Lake, p. 32 
of this Manual.) 



The plot. 

Unity of the plot. 

Scenes. 

Incidents. 

Climax. 

The characters. 
Bibliography. 
A List of the Characters appear 

ing in Ivanhoe. 
Genealogical Table of the Eng 
lish Kings after the Normau 
Conquest. 
MAP. 
Text. 
Appendix. 
Author's Notes. 
Index of Words Annotated. 

General Facts: 

What is the date of the pub« 

lication of Ivanhoe? 
What departure of Scott's 

in choice of subjects does it 

mark (p. 21)? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



17 



Vhat is the origin of the name? 

Vas Ivanhoe a historical char- 
acter? 

Vhat were Scott's sources for 
this book? 

Vhat is the rank of Ivanhoe 
among Scott's works? 

Vhat pen name is used in this 
book? Why (p. 21)? 

ETTING AND SITUATION 

Vhat is the time of the story? 
Its duration in time? 

If what race were the rulers 
of England? The common 
people? 

>o you know of any admix- 
ture in the blood royal (the 
wife of Henry I. was a 
Saxon princess, p. 39)? 

low does Scott represent 
the relation existing between 
the two races? 

[ow does he ^account for their 
becoming one race? 

Vhat is the location of the 
story? 

rote on the map (p. 40) the 
different places mentioned. 

5 the formal introduction end- 
ing on p. 44 interesting? Can 
you think of any other way 
[in which the novel might 
have been introduced? 

)EVELOPMENT OF THE PLOT : 

Vhat purpose does the conver- 
sation between Gurth and 
Wamba in Chapter I serve? 

ummarize briefly the hints in 
Chapter II as to the station 
and importance to the story 



of Cedric and his family. 
What purpose can you see 
for all these hints before we 
meet the persons? 
Trace through Chapters I and 

II the indications of a storm? 
What purpose is there in 
having a storm come? 

Trace through Chapters II and 

III hints as to the feeling of 
Cedric and Rowena toward 
Cedric's son. 

Summarize the action that 
takes place during Chapters 
III, IV, and V, noting partic- 
ularly the successive appear- 
ances of the different 
important characters and the 
theatric character of the ac- 
tion. 

Why does Scott have the 
Palmer, rather than some 
other character in the story, 
offer his seat to the Jew (p. 
92)? 

Are there any hints in Chapter 
VI that the Palmer is per- 
haps not really a palmer? 

What in Chapter VII is the 
significance of the encounter 
of Athelstane, Cedric, and 
the yeoman, with Prince 
John and his company? 

What effect do you think Scott 
wished to secure by the 
delay in the tournament (p. 
142)? 

Is there any evidence in Chap- 
ter X that Rebecca is 
especially interested in the 
DisinheritedKnight? 



18 



teacher's manual 



"What purpose does Chapter XI 
serve in the development of 
the story? 

Who were the robbers and why- 
did they act as they did? 

In Chapter XII why did Athel- 
stane array himself on the 
side of the Templar? 

What effect is produced by the 
disappearance of the Black 
Sluggard at the conclusion 
of the tournament? 

After learning positively that 
the Disinherited Knight is 
Ivanhoe, go back and trace 
all the hints that lead up to 
this discovery. 

What is the meaning of the 
message received by Prince 
John on p. 201? 

What does the repeated sin- 
gling out of the yeoman 
Locksley indicate as to his 
importance in the story? 

What purpose does the en- 
counter of the Black Knight 
and the Clerk of Copman- 
hurst (Chapters XVI and 
XVII) serve? Point out the 
chapters, both before and af- 
ter, with which its action is 
directly connected. Does it 
serve any other good purpose 
besides its direct connection 
with the plot? 

In Chapter XIX, why is no 
revelation made as to the 
identity of the sick man with 
the Jew, and why do Cedric 
and Rowena show no cu- 
riosity? 



Notice in Chapters XIX an 
XX the natural way i 
which the persons who ar 
to take part in the siege o 
Torquilstone are broug'n 
together, and how they hav 
all been previously, in on 
way or another, sympa 
thizers with the persons con 
fined in the castle. 

In Chapter XXI what is th 
purpose of Cedric's reminis 
cences (pp. 282-85)? 

Note resemblances of Chapte 
XXII to The Merchant q 
Venice. What dramati' 
effect is prominent in thi 
chapter? 

Does the matter at the end o 
Chapter XXIII, beginning 
with the last paragraph oi 
p. 306, belong properly wit] 
the story? What bette 
place can you suggest fo 
it? 

What one important even 
stops all the evil scheme: 
attempted in Chapters XXI 
XXIV? Note the suspense ir 
each story, the climax whicl 
each reaches, the similarities 
and contrasts between them 
Compare the actions of Row 
ena and Rebecca. 

In Chapter XXV what is the 
effect of the semi - comic 
challenge, introduced in the 
midst of an action so se- 
rious? 

What purpose does the story 
of Ulrica, Chapter XXVII, 



FOE THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



19 



serve in relation to the fu- 
ture progress of the story? 

In Chapter XXIX how is the 
account of the assault pre- 
sented? Is the method effec- 
tive? What other sort of 
description of the assault is 
given (pp. 408 ff.)? 

What powerful dramatic cli- 
max is there in Chapter 
XXX? 

What action in the early part 
of the book does the Black 
Knight's whispering to De 
Brac}"" remind you of (pp. 
413, HI)? 

Point out from the time of the 
tournament to final revela- 
tion of his identity every 
hint you find as to the Black 
Knight. What is the purpose 
of so many? 

What is the purpose of the 
long talk of Beaumanoir on 
pp. 472 ff.? Point out in 
order the most important 
events in the trial of Re- 
becca, Chapters XXXVII and 
XXXVIII. 

Do you find this part of the 
book any less interesting 
than what precedes? If so, 
why? 

In what ways in Chapter 
XXXIX and before are we 
prepared for Bois-Guilbert's 
taking up arms against Re- 
becca's cause? Make clear 
the chain of circumstances 
that is linked around him 
(pp. 532, 533, etc.). 



Note how in Chapter XL (p. 
537) we are prepared for 
Ivanhoe's speedy recovery in 
time to fight for Rebecca. 

Why does Scott have Wamba 
blow the bugle (p. 548)? 

Does the unexpected reappear- 
ance of Athelstane (p. 575) 
seem reasonable and natural? 
Is it sufficiently accounted 
for? 

How does Cedric become rec- 
onciled with Ivanhoe? 

Do you know any other story 
in which a champion, de- 
manded by a woman wrong- 
ly accused, appears at the 
last moment, as in Ivanhoe 
(the Lohengrin story)? 

Is it effective to have Ivanhoe 
win not by force of arms but 
by chance at the end of 
Chapter XLIII? Are there 
any reasons why it would not 
have been reasonable to have 
him win by superior prowess? 

Scenes : 

Referring to the list of scenes 
on pp. 28-29, summarize the 
important events that hap- 
pen in each one. 

Do you find any other scenes 
worthy of being ranked 
equal in importance with 
any of these? 

Point out a scene (not neces- 
sarily one of these larger 
ones) illustrating each one 
of the following matters re- 
ferred to at the bottom of p. 



20 



teacher's MAN"UAL 



29: (1) presenting portraits 
of the persons concerned; 
(2) containing the germ from 
which subsequent action is 
to spring ; (3) designed chief- 
ly for contrast and relief; 
(4) for spectacular effect. 
Point out a scene in which the 
action moves very rapidly; 
another in which it is very 
slow; another in which the 
author goes back to pick up 
a thread in his narrative. 

Characters: 

Do the characters in Ivcmhoe 
seem to you like real people? 
Name any who do not. In 
answering this question 
make allowance for the fact 
that the book is a romance 
dealing with people of a very 
remote time, but that never- 
theless it must be true to 
human nature in general. 

Point out good examples of 
each of the different ways of 
revealing character: (1) by 
direct comment of the au- 
thor ; (2) by what the charac- 
ter says and does; (3) by 
what other people say about 
the character; (4) by the 
effect the character has on 
others. Which one of these 
methods, in your opinion, 
predominates in this book? 

Who is the hero of this book? 
The heroine? 

How does our interest in the 
fortunes of Richard compare 



with our interest in the for- 
tunes of Ivanhoe? Our in- 
terest in Rebecca with that 
in Rowena? 

Which of the two women do 
you admire more? Why? 

With which do you think Scott 
had the greater sympathy? 
Why? 

Are any of the prominent fig- 
ures in Ivanhoe brought in 
without previous mention? 

To what extent is the language 
of different characters made 
different according to their 
race or station? Are these 
differences such as are sug. 
gested in the scene between 
Gurth and Wamba ( pp. 50-5 1 ) ? 
Note particularly, in this re- 
gard, the language of Isaac, 
of Friar Tuck, of the Grand 
Master of the Templars. 

Referring to the list of charac- 
ters on pp. 37-38, describe 
briefly the following: Nos. 
8, 9, 13, 14, 21, 22, 23, 50, 51. 

Point out clearly the ruling 
motives of the following: 
Nos. 1, 4, 15, 16, 41, 45. Are 
there any occasions on which 
the ruling motive of one of 
these characters is made too 
prominent? 

Style— Vocabulary ; 

Is the range of vocabulary in 

Ivanhoe large or small? 
Make a list of words found in 

two or three pages (394-97; 

180-83; 202-9; 422-26; 471-76), 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



21 



that refer to ancient man- 
ners and customs. 

Compare a descriptive, a nar- 
rative, and an expository- 
passage each with a similar 
passage in Irving and Cooper. 

Are the words predominatingly 
Latin' or Anglo-Saxon. 

Count the number of words of 
Latin origin and the number 
of Saxon origin on any one 
page, and find the percent- 
age of each. 

Are the words well chosen? 

Is the principle of choice pre- 
cision or picturesqueness? 

Examine carefully the words 
which are annotated and any 
others which are unusual or 
used with notable felicity. 

Sentences: 

Notice carefully in all the 
reading, grammatical con- 
structions not now regarded 
correct, and idioms not used 
at the present time. 

Criticize, for example, for 
grammatical construction, 
the following: p. 48, line 6, 
"which circumstance," and 



similar constructions on p. 
71, etc. ; p. 67, middle, mixed 
pronouns in sentence begin- 
ning, "Whosoever thou art," 
and many similar examples ; 
p. 85, line 13, "at his ward 
appearing, "and similar con- 
structions on p. 157 and else- 
where; p. 290, near top, the 
"and which" construction, 
which is found a number of 
times elsewhere ; p. 337, ' 'They 
might be whomsoever," etc. 

Explain all uses of shall and 
tvill, would and should, near 
bottom of p. 215 and top of 
J). 216, and near bottom of p. 
368, and elsewhere (cf . Her- 
rick and Damon, pp. 175-80). 

Comment on order and use of 
subjunctive in paragraph on 
p. 337, beginning "No, by St. 
Dunstan," etc. 

Take two or three detached 
paragraphs containing long 
sentences and see if clearness 
and force could not be gained 
by breaking some of the sen- 
tences up into shorter ones 
(cf. Herrick and Damon, pp. 
285-89 and Chapter XIX). 



22 



teacher's man-ual 



SILAS MARNER. George Eliot. Edited by Albert Elmer Hancock, Ph.E 
Instructor in English in Haverford College. Chicago: Scott, Foresma 
and Company, pp. 288. 30 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Preface. 
Introduction. 

I. George Eliot and her Work. 

Biography, 

A Glimpse at the Novels. 

The Psychological Method. 

Realism in Humble Life. 

Her Philosophy of Life: 
Humanism. 

Style. 

Life of George Eliot •. 

For what reason did Mary Ann 
Evans style herself George 
Eliot? 

Write a biography of her. 

What kind of education and 
home training did she have? 

What trait of character dis- 
played itself in her childhood 
that was present in her later 
life and in all of her works 
(P- 8)? 

State something of her early 
struggle with orthodox 
Christian theology. 

Discuss in a short theme her 
attitude in Silas Marner 
toward those who hold to a 
simple faith (p. 236, note). 

How was she directed toward 
novel-writing? 

How was she particularly fit- 
ted by early environment for 
the novel of middle class life 
in which she did her best 
work? 

Name six novels generally con- 
ceded to be her best and state 



II. Analysis of Silas Marner. 
Purpose. 
The Characters. 
The Descriptions. 
Dramatic Incidents. 
Didactic Interpolations. 
III. Bibliography. 

Topics for Themes and Dt 
cussions. 
Text. 



in a word or two the them 
of each (pp. 13 ff.). 
What position is assigned t 
her among English novelist 
(p. 31)? 

Development of the Plot: 
How much of the story ha 

taken place before the nove 

opens? 
Why does the story open whe: 

and where it does and no 

before? 
How is the past history o 

Marner introduced? 
What has his false accusatio) 

and condemnation to do wit) 

the plot? 
How many of the chapters ari 

introductory? 
How does the time of the ston 

and the secluded situation O) 

Raveloe (p. 36) help to makt 

the story probable? 
How would modern means O) 

communication have foilec 

Godfrey in his desire to kee| 

some of his secrets? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



23 



When is there the first hint of 
the stealing of Marner's 
money (p. 56)? 

Where is there another (p. 
76)? 

How many plots are there? 
How are they connected? 

Pick out which chapters have 
to do with the Cass plot, 
which with the Marner plot, 
and which with both. 

Why is the incident of the 
earthenware pot introduced 
(\y. 57)? 

What important incident in 
the plot is motived by God- 
frey's giving his brother 
Fowler's rent? 

Is there any intimation that 
Dunstan will come to grief in 
the selling of Wildfire (p. 
66)? 

How does the Wildfire incident 
connect the two plots? 

What reason had George Eliot 
for not letting Dunstan give 
up Wildfire when the bargain 
was struck (p. 78)? 

What reason for letting Dun- 
stan take Godfrey's whip (p. 
81)? 

When is the first mention 
made of Molly (p. 67)? 

What part does she have in the 
plot? 

How is Godfrey's past life 
given (p. 73)? Are there dra 
matio reasons for this pre- 
sentation? 

Are there episodes that do not 
advance the plot? 



What is the purpose of Chap- 
ter VI? 

Why is this method taken to 
announce the robbery of 
Marner? 

Compare it with the other 
dramatic scenes in the book. 

Is the same method used in 
each one? 

Count the number of people in 
each of these scenes. 

Are the incidents of Molly's 
death and the finding of the 
child by Marner probable? 

What purpose is served by 
Chapter VIII? 

Does the quarrel scene between 
Godfrey and the Squire ad- 
vance the plot, tell us some- 
thing about the other char- 
acters, or does it only illus- 
trate the character of the 
Squire (pp. 130 ff.)? 

Why is Mrs. Winthrop intro- 
duced? 

Why is the New Year's party 
at the Brick House described 
at such length? Why are the 
conversations so minutely re- 
ported,— for plot, character, 
or theme? Is there any prep- 
aration for the foUgwing 
scene? 

Why does George Eliot make 
Silas subject to catalepsy? 
Why portray him with de- 
fective eyesight? 

Whj' does she give Eppie gold- 
en hair (p. 190)? 

What do you think of Chapter 
XVt 



24 



teachee's manual 



Does the transition from Part 
I to Part II seem abrupt? 

How long a time elapses be- 
tween the two parts? 

Tell what has taken place in 
Marner's condition in the 
meantime. How did you 
find this out? 

Where is the climax in interest 
reached? 

Does the interest continue to 
the end? 

Where is the climax in con- 
struction? Chapter XI or 
XII? 

When has the inciting force 
dropped out? 

Does the story seek its end? 

What chapters serve to delay 
the catastrophe? 

Has tliere been any intimation 
that Dunstan Cass is dead 
in the stone-pit (p. 240)? 

Does the story conclude before 
the "Conclusion"? 

Characters : 

Classify the characters into 
groups. 

How many principal charac- 
ters are there? 

Who form the background- 
characters? 

Characterize in detail Silas 
Marner, Godfrey Cass, Squire 
Cass, Nancy Lammeter, Dolly 
Winthrop, and Eppie. 

How many of the characters 
stand distinctly in your 
mind? 

How many are only pegs in the 



development of the plot and 

theme? 
How many are useless' to the 

plot? 
What ones serve to reestablish 

Silas Marner in his human 

relations? 
Are the characters shown by 

action, conversation, 'or the 

author's comment? 
What do you '^think of George 

Eliot's power of character- 
ization? 

Method and Style : 

Which is more important in 
Silas Marner, plot or char- 
acter? 

Illustrate by the character of 
Silas Marner the chief points 
in George Eliot's treatment 
of character. 

Do her characters seem drawn 
from real life or are ^they 
impossible people of the im- 
agination? 

Is her vision microscopic or 
telescopic? 

Does she deal with great 
actions or with motives and 
impulses? 

How has she attained her two 
primary objects in the writ- 
ing of Silas Marner (p. 25)? 

How did George Eliot's schol- 
arship affect her style? 

Find paragraphs that are made 
too solid by an overcrowding 
of facts. 

What do you think of the open- 
ing paragraph? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



25 



Pick out and preserve examples 
of "epigrammatic concrete- 
ness." 

Note her use of conversation. 

Do the people speak naturally, 
according to their stations in 
life, or do they indulge in 
book talk? Take Dolly Win- 
throp as an example. 

What effect did George Eliot's 
tendency to moralize have? 

Show how she uses irony of 
fate in bringing Godfrey's 
secrets to light, in that 



everything which seems to 
make him secure eventually 
leads to his exposure. 

Show that Godfrey escapes the 
penalties he has brought on 
himself only to incur others 
just as severe in the end. 

Is George Eliot's purpose in 
this merely moral, or does 
each new step in Godfrey's 
story make the whole story 
more interesting? 

For a list of topics for themes 
see page 32. 



THE MERCHANT OP VENICE. William Siiakspere. Edited by Robert 
Morss Liovett, Assistant Professor of English, the University of Chicago. 
Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp.173. 25 cents. 



Preface. 

Contents. 
Introduction. 

I. Shakspere and his Plays. 

Life. 

The English Drama. 

Shakspere as a Dramatist. 

II. The Merchant of Venice. 

Date. 

Life of Shakspere : 

Give in a few words the main 

facts of Shakspere's life 

(pp. 3-7). 
For how long was he connected 

with the stage as actor and 

playwright? 
What was his fame during his 

lifetime? 
How did he begin his career as 

dramatist (p. 15)? 
Was the practice of rewriting 



The Sources of the Plot. 
The Construction of the 
Drama. 
III. Shakspere's Style. 
Meter. 
Language. 

TEXT. 

Notes. 
Glossary. 

and adapting old plays com- 
mon at this time? 

Be able to name the most im- 
portant i3lays of each of the 
periods of his life. For the 
plays in tabulated form see 
Neilson's Introduction to 
Jtdius Caesar, Lake Classics. 

Was Shakspere a compara- 
tively rich man at his death 
(p. 6)? 

Did he write his plays for pos- 



26 



teacher's MAIOJAL 



terity or to please an Eliza- 
bethan audience (p. 17)? 

When was the first authorized 
edition of his complete 
works published? 

From what are the texts of 
the editions of the present 
day taken? 

What besides dramas did 
Shakspere write? 

The English Drama : 

Wliat is the source of the 
drama as we know it (pp. 
7-15)? 

What were the mystery, mir- 
acle, and morality plays? 

How was the drama developed 
from them? 

How did professional actors 
arise? 

What were interludes (p. 10)? 

In what way was the drama 
an expression of the intel- 
lectual and religious revival 
of the nation? 

What two requirements for 
dramatic success were pres- 
ent at the time when Shaks- 
pere wrote? 

What is the first English com- 
edy? The first English trag- 
edy? 

For what did the popular taste 
call (p. 12)? 

What were the names of the 
most famous theatres at this 
time? Of the most famous 
actors (x>. 13)? 

Describe the theatre of that 
age. 



Who were some of Shakspere's 
contemporaries (pp. 14, 15)? 

The Merchant op Venice- 
Date AND Sources : 

What is the method employed 
in determining the date of 
Shakspere's plays (pp. 
18 ft'.)? 

How is it applied to TJie Mer- 
chant of Venice? 

What is the probable date of 
composition? 

Is it in Shakspere's early, mid- 
dle, or late period? 

Are his plots usually original 
with him? 

What are the probable sources 
of the plot of this play? 

Show how the pound of flesh 
story diiTers from its Italian 
form in II Pecorone (p. 21) 
and hovv^ the casket story is 
changed from the tale in the 
Gesta Romanorum (p. 24). 

How does Shakspere make one 
plot of the two stories? 

What is the source of the 
Launcelot Gobbo and the 
Lorenzo - Jessica stories (p. 
25)? 

Determine for yourself the 
time action of the play. 

Do you agree with what is said 
on p. 32? 

Development of the Plot: 
I. Does the discussion of Anto- 
nio's argosies in I, i, foretell 
his later ruin? 
What function have Salanio 
and Salarino? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



27 



7here is tlie first mention 
made of the dinner (p. 48)? 

^hat dramatic purpose does 
the character of Gratiauo 
serve? 

[ow is the purpose brought out 
in the first act? 

[ow are the relations between 
Antonio and Bassanio 
brought out in the first 
scene? 

^hat exposition is given in the 
second scene (pp. 53 ff.)? 

fhat device is used for de- 
scribing the suitors (p. 54)? 

[as there been any mention of 
the bond previous to the 
third scene? 

>oes this helj) the plot or is it a 

scene of character exposition? 

Ixplain Shylock's attitude 
toward Antonio (p. GO). 

3 there any warning in Bassa- 
nio's speech (1. 180)? 

ummarize Act I and tell what 
part of the i)lot has been 
unfolded. 

I, How does Launcelot Gobbo 
connect the two x)lots? 

Vhat other function has he? 

/an you justify the length of 
sc. iii? 

Vliat does it accomplish? 

)oes Shy lock have any intima- 
tion of the treachery of his 
daughter (p. 79)? Why does 
Shy lock part with Launcelot? 

s sc. viii a scene of action 
or of description? 

low have matters been "com- 
plicated" in Act II? 



How has the plot been ad- 
vanced? 

III. From where does Anto- 
nio's downfall begin? 

Who started the rumor that 
Antonio's ships were 
wrecked? 

Note Shylock's warning (p. 
98). 

Notice how he jumps at any 
word of Antonio's distress 
(p. 100). 

Is Tubal sympathetic or is he 
purposely vexing Shylock? 

What plot is brought to an end 
in sc. ii and what two new 
plots begin (11. 74, 19G)? 

When does the news of Anto- 
nio's misfortune reach Bas- 
sanio? 

What importance has sc. ii 
in the plot? What does sc. 
iii accomplish? 

What new incident does sc. iv 
introduce? 

How does sc. v retard the 
action? 

IV. Why did not Antonio es- 
cape? 

Suppose that the play ended 
with Act IV, what effect 
would it have? (Edmund 
Kean — and others —omitted 
the fifth act.) 

Why does Gratiano speak (p. 
128)? 

Why do we pay no attention to 
the improbability of Portia's 
disguise? 

What zest is given to the end 
of IV, iv, by the fact tliat the 



28 



teacher's manual 



players were boys (cf. Neil- 
son's Julius Caesar, p. 23)? 

Why is the panegyric on mercy 
introduced (p. 131)? 

Why does Portia lead Shy lock 
to believe that he will win 
his cause? 

When does she make the 
fatal revelation as to the 
drop of blood? 

How are the threads of the 
other plots taken up after 
Shy lock's "exit"? 

V. The main plot and most 
important sub-plot have 
been finished at the end of 
Act IV. What remains for 
Act V? 

Note the exquisite lyric poetry 
of so. i, and have the en- 
comium on music (p. 146) 
memorized. 

How is the ring story intro- 
duced? What ending has it? 

What of the ending of the 
play? 

Plot in General: 

Why does Antonio borrow 
money of Shylock, his par- 
ticular enemy (I, i, 130; I, 
iii, 65)? 

How does Shakspere make it 
seem probable that such an 
absurd bond should be pro- 
posed? 



What was Shylock's purpos 

concerning the bond when i 

was first proposed (I, iii 
48)? 
Was his purpose modified i 

any way before the bou' 

was fulfilled? 
In what different ways is th 

story of the rings helpful t 

the play? 
How are the conditions t 

which Arragon swears, to b 

enforced? 
What do you think of the wi 

of Launcelot Gobbo? 
Is there any excuse fc 

Jessica's treatment of he 

father, or for not payin 

Shylock the money that Ai 

tonio and Bassanio had bo: 

rowed from him? 
For what moral lesson do( 

Shakspere use the caski 

story? 

Form of the Play : 

What is the metre in whic 

Shakspere's dramas we] 

written? 
What are the chief variatioi 

from the normal line? 
What is the rule general! 

observed in the use of blan 

verse and prose? 
Find examples of and explai 

grammatical peculiarities. 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



29 



rHE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Oliver Goldsmith. Edited by Edward P. 
Morton, A.M., Assistant Professor of Euglish, Indiana University. 
Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 280. 30 cents. 

CONTENTS 



[NTRODUCTION. 

Goldsmith's Life. 
Goldsmith's Work. 

SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS. 

jOldsmith's Life and 
Work: 

tV'hen and where was he born? 

What was his father's occupa- 
tion? 

\Vhat literary use did Gold- 
smith make of his father's 
character and occupation 
(p. 21)? What literary use of 
the village where he was 
born (p. 15)? 

What can you say of Gold- 
smith's early education? 

What of his university life? 

for what profession did he 
study, and where? 

Fell something of his wander- 
ings in Europe. What liter- 
ary work was the ultimate 
result of them (p. 13)? 

What school position did he 
afterwards occupy? 

How did he happen to begin to 
write? What was his first 
volume? 

N'ame the prominent literary 
associates of Goldsmith and 
tell the most important facts 
about each one of them (p. 
12)? 

What was Goldsmith's first 
work of high importance, 
and when did it appear (p. 
13)? How was it received? 



Books about GoiiDSMiTH. 

Text. 

Suggestive Questions. 

Glossary. 

What other important poem 
did he write and when was 
it published? 

What are the names of his 
comedies? 

What change in the spirit of 
comedy were they instru- 
mental in bringing about 
(p. 20)? 

Where did Goldsmith live dur- 
ing the latter years of his 
life? 

When did he die ; at what age 
and under what circum- 
stances? 

Write a character sketch of 
Goldsmith, using both the 
Introduction (pp. 16-18) and 
all that is revealed in rela- 
tion to various characters in 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 

The Vicar of Wakefield — 
General Facts: 

(For suggestive questions to 
which these are only supple- 
mentary see pp. 267-72 in 
the Lake English Classics 
edition of this work. ) 

When was The Vicar of Wajce- 
field published? 

Tell about Goldsmith's circum- 
stances shortly before its 
publication (pp. 13, 14). 



30 



teacher's manual 



What success did the book 
have? 

What is the time of the story? 
Its place? The duration of 
time? Its general setting, — 
rustic or urban? 

Progress of the Story: 

Is there anything significant 
regarding the plot in the 
characterization of the Vic- 
ar's daughters in Chapter I? 

What is the purpose, for the 
story, of the dispute on 
monogamy in Chapter II? 

Why is so much told in Chap- 
ter III about young Thorn- 
hill's uncle? 

Does the account of the elder 
Thornhill suggest Gold- 
smith's own experiences (p. 
43)? 

In Chapter V how is the real 
attitude of the two girls to- 
ward Thornhill indicated in 
spite of the remarks they 
make on p. 54? 

In Chapter VI what progress 
is there in the relations of 
Sophia and Mr. Burchell? 

In what ways, in Chapter IX, 
is the Vicar's real opinion of 
the ladies from town shown, 
— directly or by implication 
and shrewd guess? 

In Chapter XII does Moses 
show any characteristic 
which you know to have 
been a characteristic of 
Goldsmith himself? Does 
the Vicar in Chapter XIV? 

Is the Vicar sincere, in Chap- 



ter XIII, in his gratificatioi 
over the departure of Bur 
chell? 

In Chapter XV is there an^ 
other possible interpretatioi 
of the letter (pp. 113-14) thai 
that which the Primrose 
give it? Is the Vicar con 
scious of any other interpre 
tation? 

How do you account for th( 
actions of Mr. Burchell ii 
this chapter? 

In Chapter XVII is there an;} 
significance in the actions o 
Olivia and Thornhill (p. 129) 

Point out all the details ii 
Chapter XX which seem t( 
have been suggested bj 
actual events in Goldsmith'^ 
life. All the characteristic 
of George which seem to bt 
characteristics of Goldsmitl 
himself. 

What theatric event taket 
place^in Chapter XXI? 

Does the burning of the lious€ 
in Chapter XXII seem rea 
sonable and natural? Is any 
explanation offered of how 
it happened? 

In Chapter XXIV what dra- 
matic appropriateness is 
there in the song (p. 192) and 
the event that immediately 
follows it? 

In Chapter XXVII is the dis- 
quisition on punishments a 
digression? Is it interesting 
enough of itself to be justi- 
fied? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



31 



!Jompare the cumulative an- 
nouncement of the Vicar's 
misfortunes in Chapter 
XXVIII with the announce- 
ment of Job's misfortunes 
(Book of Job, Chapter I). 

AT^hat strong effect of contrast 
is there in this chapter (pp. 
224-26)? 

)o any of the devices used in 
Chapters XXX and XXXI in 
untangling the plot seem 
unreasonable or unnatural? 
Answer specifically, v/ith 
reasons for your opinion. 

Characters : 

^oint out good examples of the 
revelation of character by 
each of the following meth- 
ods: (1) direct comment of 
the author; (2) what tlie 
character says and does; (3) 
what other characters say 
about him; (4) the effect he 
has on other characters. 

kVhich method predominates 
in this book? Count the 
number of examples of each 
in any important chapter. 
Which method is the most 
effective? In the revelation 
of the Vicar's character not 
all of these methods can be 
used. Which are used with 
success? 

^rite character sketches of the 



Vicar, his wife, Moses, 
George, Olivia, and Sophia, 
Squire Thornhill, Sir William 
Thornhill, and Jenkinson. 

Name three characteristics of 
Dr. Primrose, and show how 
they lead to incidents in the 
story. 

Contrast Dr. Primrose and his 
wife. Does any part of the 
story grow out of such con- 
trast? 

Are all the characters neces- 
sary for the story? 

Was the book written for the 
story or for the characters? 

Can the characters be divided 
into good and bad, or does 
each show a mixture of vir- 
tues and vices (or faults)? 

Can you deduce a moral from 
the book? 

Style: 

What is the range of vocabu- 
lary in The Vicar of Wake- 
field, compared, say, with 
that in Ivanhoet The rela- 
tive simplicity of the style? 

Do you find Goldsmith's words 
well or ill chosen? His sen- 
tences rough or smooth, easy 
or api^arently labored? 

Does he paragraph as a pres- 
ent-day novelist would? 
Point out examples to prove 
j^our answer. 



32 



teacher's manual 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. Sir Walter Scott. Edited by Williar 
Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assistant Professor of English, the University c, 
Chicago. Chicago: Scott, Foresnian and Company, pp.264. 30 cents. 



Map : The scene of The Lady of 

the Lake. 
Introduction. 

I. Life of Scott. 

TI. Scott's Place in the Romantic 
Movement. 

Life op Scott : 

Can the leading traits of 
Scott's character be traced 
to his ancestors (p. 9)? 

How did he regard the mem- 
bers of his clan, especially 
the chief (p. 19)? 

What characteristic is repre- 
sented in his refusal to learn 
Latin and Greek at school? 

What was his own method of 
obtaining an education? In 
what did he become pro- 
ficient (p. 12)? 

How did he regard his legal 
studies? How did they ben- 
efit him in his later work? 

How was he first interested in 
ballad-writing? 

Describe his early married 
life (p. 18). 

Tell of the composition, publi- 
cation, and popularity of his 
first poems. 

In what business venture did 
he become involved, and 
what was the final out- 
come? 

What defect in his character 
is it charged that his busi- 
ness relations brought to 
light (pp. 24-35)? 



III. The Lady of the Lake. 
Historical Setting. 
General Criticism and 
Analysis. 
Text. 
Notes. 

Describe his life at Abbots 
ford. 

Tell of the comjjosition of hi: 
novels. Why were the;| 
published incognito (p. 33)? 

What can you say of his las^ 
years and his heroic struggle 
to pay off the debts incurrec 
by his connection with Bal 
lantyne? 

The Romantic Movement ani 
Scott's Connection with it 

What is meant by the "Ro 
mantic Movement"? 

What four men were chiefly 
instrumental in bringing 
about this revolution in Eng- 
lish poetry (p. 40)? 

What was the influence ol 
Scott's poetry on the age in 
comparison with that ol 
these men? Give the rea- 
sons (p. 41). 

What were the distinguishing 
qualities of the literature ol 
the eighteenth century^ 
Illustrate this by examples 
from Pope or any other poet 
that you choose from that 
period, and put them intc 
contrast with the qualities 
of the romantic poets. 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



33 



Vas Scott's conservatism a 

"romantic" quality? 
)oes liis style differ greatly 

from that of the poets of the 

preceding century? 

jADY of the Lake — Con- 
struction : 

s there anything that has 
taken place before the open- 
ing of the poem that has to 
be understood for a thorough 
appreciation of the story (p. 
46)? How are the previous 
fortunes of the Douglas fam- 
ily related (p. 98)? 

Vhat purpose in the plot does 
the Minstrel serve through- 
out? 

Vhat do you think of the 
opening? 

)escribe the chase. Does it 
serve merely to furnish an 
opportunity for the descrip- 
tion? 

s the action rapid or slow? 

low is it often retarded? 

''or what are the songs intro- 
duced? 

Tote the transition from 
stanza X to XI (p. 66) ; from 
XVI to XVII ; fromXXIV to 
XXV (p. 143); and many 
others. 

)utline the plot in a theme of 
two hundred words or less. 

3ow many cases of concealed 
identity are there in the 
poem? Does this turning of 
the plot on mistaken identity 
make it seem unreal? 



Show in each case where the 
identity is exposed and 
vrliere hints have been given 
beforehand of the real iden- 
tity. 

Is there any intimation of the 
identity of Ellen and her 
father in 11. 6, 7, 8, p. 81 ; 11. 
11-22, p. 87? 

What is the purpose of Fitz- 
James's dream (p. 86)? 

What is the first hint of Ellen's 
love story and the name of 
her lover (pp. 74, 92)? 

When is Roderick Dhu first 
mentioned (p. 96)? In wh^t 
light? 

Where are the relations of 
Ellen with Roderick and 
with Malcolm ] further dis- 
closed (p. 98)? 

To whom is the reference in 
11. 19-21, p. 116? 

What action does the struggle 
between Roderick and Mal- 
colm motive? 

How does Canto Third advance 
the plot? What is its poet- 
ical value (p. 56)? 

What purpose does Brian 
serve? 

Does the prophecy (p. 157) 
heighten the dramatic effect 
of the following scene (see 
p. 196)? 

For what are 11. 5-15, p. 157, a 
preparation (p. 168)? 

What is the purpose of the 
Ballad of Alice Brand (p. 
162 ff.)? 

What other influence of Scott's 



34 



TEACHER'S MANUAL 



early interest in ballad liter- 
ature can you point out in 
The Lady of the Lake? 

Does the warning of James by 
the song of mad Blanche 
seem improbable? 

Describe the scene where 
Roderick Dliu calls his men 
from copse and heath. 

What IS the purpose of the long 
speeches between James and 
Roderick in the dramatic 
scene following? 

Does the combat between 
James and'Jioderick (pp. 198, 
199) seem a real fight? 

Why was Roderick preserved 
to die in the castle at Stir- 
ling? 

Are 11. 15-25, p. 203, an artistic 
preparation for the follow- 
ing scene? 

How do the games in the Cas- 
tle park hasten the plot to 
its end? 

How is the fight between Clan- 
Alpine and the Earl of Mar 
described? 

How much of the action takes 
place outside the poem and 
is related? 

Note the use of the supernat- 
ural (p. 239). Does it seem 
impressive? 

Is the conclusion sustained and 
dramatic? 

Description : 

Are the nature descriptions 
given for scenic effect or 
do they serve as a back- 



ground and setting for the 
story? 

Does Scott employ incidents of 
plot for the sake of dragging 
in descriptions? 

Which is the best in the poem : 
nature description, plot-con- 
struction, character descrip- 
tion, or the portrayal of old 
life and customs? 

Is his descriptive language 
suggestive? 

Are the landscape scenes 
given minutely or are they 
drawn with a free hand? 

Describe Ellen's bower (pp. 78, 
79). 

Does Scott keep closely to the 
geography of the region of 
his tale (see map, p. 3, andl 
note, p. 260)? 

Describe the approach of Rod- 
erick's boats (pp. 100 ff.) andl 
the carrying of the fiery 
cross to arouse the clan 
(Canto III). 

Characters: 

Are the characters distinctly 

drawn — do they seem real 

people of flesh and blood? 
Characterize Ellen. How is 

her character displayed? 
Do you feel any sympathy 

for Roderick Dhu? Does his 

character grow upon'you (pp. 

96, 98, 99, 182, 188, 195 and 

241)? 
Was Douglas an historical 

character? 
Is the character of James Fitz- 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



35 



James true to James V. of 
Scotland? 
What place in the ancient 



Scottish clan did the Min- 
strel have? 
Describe Allan-bane. 



THE SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS from the Spectator. Addison. 
Edited by Herbert Vaughan Abbott, Instructor in English in Harvard 
University. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company. | pp. 249, 30 cents. 



Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction. 

The Spectator. 

The Streets. 

Night in London. 

The Beau. 

The Woman of Fashion. 

A Fashionable Library. 

A Fashionable Garden. 

Fashionable Amusements. 

The Theater. 

The Pit. 

Differences of Opinion. 

The Coffee-House. 

Special Coffee-Houses. 

The City. 

The Landed Interest. 

Travel into the. Country. 

The Country Gentleman. 



Hunting Fashions. 

The Country Squire. 

The Church. 

The Whigs and the Tories, 

The War. 

Pamphleteers. 

Journalists. 

The Spectator Again. 

Joseph Addison. 

Addison at the Coffee-House. 

Prudent Mr. Addison. 

His Kindly Spirit. 

Dick Steele. 

The Details of his Life. 

His Frankness of Temper, 

His Simplicity of Feeling. 

Dobson on Steele. 

Budgell. 

A Picture of the Age. 



ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS. 



Chapter 




Chapter 


I. 


The Spectator. 


XX. 


II. 


The Club. 


XXI. 


III. 


Sir Roger on Fashion 


XXII. 




and Virtue. 


XXIII. 


IV. 


The Club Again. 


XXIV. 


V. 


A Lady's Library. 




VI. 


Coverley Hall. 


XXV. 


VII. 


The Coverley Household. 


XXVI. 


VIII. 


Will Wimble. 


XXVII. 


IX. 


The Family Portraits. 


XXVIII. 


X. 


The Coverley Ghost. 


XXIX, 


XI. 


Sunday with Sir Roger. 




XIL 


Sir Roger in Love. 


XXX. 


xin. 


The Coverley Economy. 


XXXI. 


XIV. 


Sir Roger and the Hunt. 


XXXII. 


XV. 


The Hunting Field. 


XXXIII. 


XVI. 


Moll White 




XVIL 


The Wooing. 


XXXIV. 


XVIII. 


The Polite World. 


Chronolc 


XIX. 


The Coverley Poultry. 


GliOSBARY 



Sir Roger at the Assizes. 

Florio and Leonilla. 

Party Feeling, 

Whigs and Tories. 

Sir Roger and the Gyp- 
sies. 

A Summons to London. 

The Coach to London. 

Sir Andrew on Trade. 

Sir Roger in London. 

A Selection from a Spec- 
tator. 

In Westminster Abbey. 

Sir Roger at the Play. 

Will Honeycomb. 

Sir Roger at Spring 
Garden. 

The Death of Sir Roger. 



36 



teacher's manual 



The Spectator: 

In what form were the Sir 
Roger de Coverley Papers 
published (p. 13)? 

Who were the chief contribu- 
tors to the Spectator? 

Who was the originator of the 
plan (p. 43)? 

What is its share in the devel- 
opment of the modern news- 
paper? 

What was the state of journal- 
ism in England previous to 
its publication (p. 36)? 

Make a comparison of the 
Spectator and any news- 
paper of to-day. 

What was the purpose of the 
Spectator (p. 87)? Did it ac- 
complish its purpose to any 
extent? 

What kind of satire would you 
call it? 

Write a comparison of it and 
any other satire that you 
know. 

Addison and Steele: 

Write in parallel columns the 
main facts of the lives of 
Addison and Steele (pp. i38- 
45). 

How would you characterize 
Addison? Steele? 

How was the lifelong friend- 
ship between them termi- 
nated? 

Wlio seems to have been at 
fault? 

Can you characterize Addi- 
son's style? Steele's? 



If the papers were not signe'3' 
could you tell which were 
by Steele and which by 
Addison? 

Whose style is the more hum- 
orous and lively, whose the 
more finished and polished? 

How does the style of thel 
Spectator differ from that of 
the prose of to-day? 

Are there many unusual 
words? 

Compare the syntax, sentence 
length, and stru(5ture with 
the best modern usage. 

The Sir Roger de Coverley 
Papers : 

Describe the Spectator Club 
and characterize three of its 
members (p. 55)? 

How many of them are unim- 
portant figures? 

Do you think that Addison 
was drawing a portrait of 
himself when he wrote the 
description of the Spectator 
(p. 49)? 

What kind of places were the 
coffee-houses mentioned on 
page 52 (pp. 23-24)? 

What was Addison's favorite 
coffee-house? 

What does Sir Roger think of 
fashion and of real worth (p. 
63)? 

What characteristic of all hu- 
man nature is represented in 
the paper on page 68? Is 
this paper a good example of 
Addison's power of satire? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



37 



Describe the Spectator's visit 
to Coverley Hall (pp. 79 ff. — 
see p. 28). 

^Vas the condition of Sir 
Roger's household different 
from that of other country 
gentlemen? 

Eow did the small country 
gentleman live? What was 
his favorite sport (p. 29)? 
What duties did he have (p. 
30)? Is Sir Roger a typical 
example of his class? 

What kind of person was the 
woman of fashion (pp. 73-78 
—see p. 16)? 

What was the nature of the 
books mentioned on page 75 
(see p. 18)? 

Write a description of Will 
Wimble (pp. 89 ff.). 

What lament does the Specta- 
tor make about his condition 
(p. 92)? 

What characteristic of Sir 
Roger is brought out by the 
exhibition of the family por- 
traits (p. 94)? Describe the 
scene. 

Was the belief in witchcraft 
common at this time (p. 
100)? 

For what does the story from 
Josephus serve (p. 104)? 

Write a descriptionof the serv- 
ices in Sir Roger's church 
on Sunday I p. 106 — see p. 31), 

Did the cha])lain prepare his 
sermons (p. 32)? 

Describe Sir Roger's love suit 
(p. 111). 



How often is the widow men- 
tioned? 

What is meant by "humours" 
and "vapours" on page 124? 

Describe the hunt (p. 128 — see 
p. 29). 

Who was Moll White (p. 135)? 
What was the common belief 
concerning her? Where is 
her death mentioned (p. 
202)? 

How did the manners of a man 
from the city differ from 
those of one from the country 
(p. 146)? 

Describe Sir Roger at the as- 
sizes (p. 156). 

Why did Sir Roger speak? 

Who was Tom Touchy (p. 
157)? Where is he again 
mentioned? 

Relate the incident of the 
Saracen's Head (p. 159). 

To what particular inconven- 
ience was the Spectator put 
on page 178 on account of 
party prejudice? What does 
Addison say of the ruinous 
effects of party spirit (p. 
170)? What remedy does he 
propose (p. 175)? 

What were the two parties at 
this time (p. 33)? What 
were [^ the chief jDoiuts of 
difference between them? 

How do you account for Sir 
Roger being a Tory and Sir 
Andrew Freeport a Whig 
(pp. 178, 194— see p. 33)? 

Why were the Whigs anxious 
to continue the war against 



88 



teacher's makual 



France and the Tories to end 
it (p. 34)? 

Was Addison a Whig or a Tory? 

Describe the Spectator's trip 
to London (p. 190). 

What was the attitude toward 
the Puritans at this time (p. 
195)? 

What is Sir Andrew's defense 
of themerchant class on page 
196? What was the position 
of the merchants at this time 
(p. 26)? 

Was Sir Roger pleased with his 
visit to London (p. 200)? 

Write a description of Sir 
Roger at the play (p. 214)? 

Why was the theatre so popu- 
lar (p. 19)? At what time 
did the play begin (p. 20)? 
What was the pit? Where 
did the lords and ladies sit 
(p. 21)? 

What preparation did Captain 
Sentry make against the 
Mohocks? Why was it nec- 
essary (pp. 14-15)? 

Write a short synopsis of what 
is said of London in the 
eighteenth century (Intro- 
duction). 



Describe Sir Roger's visit to 

Spring Garden (p. 223)? 
For what reason is the death 
of Sir Roger announced by a 
letter from his butler? 
With what touching incident 

is the paper closed (p. 231)? 
For what fates are the other 
members of the Club re- 
served (p. 232)? 
Describe Sir Roger's death. 
What do the De Coverley Pa- 
pers lack to be a complete 
story? 
Do you find a similar lack in 
Irving' s Tales of a Traveller, 
either in the single tales or 
in the groups of tales? 
In what respect are the De 
Coverley Papers more like 
parts of a novel than like 
essays? That is, what ele- 
ments of a novel do they 
contain (plot, character, set- 
ting, purpose)? 
To what extent does it seem to 
you right to say that the De 
Coverley Papers were the 
forerunner of the English 
novel? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



39 



rHE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. Samuel Taylor Coleridge- 
THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. James Russell Lowell. Edited by 
William Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assistant Professor in English, the 
University of Chicago. Chicago; Scott, Foresman land Company, 
pp. 103. 35 cents. 

CONTENTS 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. The Vision of Sir Launfai* 



[NTRODUCTION. 

Life of Coleridge. 
Critical Comment. 
rEXT. 

Notes. 

Life of Coleridge : 

Where was he born and when? 

What was his father's occupa- 
tion and character? 

Where was Coleridge educated? 

What important person did he 
meet at this school? 

What characteristic does the 
incident related on p. 7 
show, which was prominent 
later in Coleridge's poetry? 

What was his reputation at 
school? 

Whose poetical influence came 
over him at an early age, 
and of what advantage was 
it (p. 8)? 

Tell about Coleridge's uni- 
versity career? 

What important person did he 
meet at the university? 

What important historical 
event had influence over him 
at this time? 

In what great scheme were 

- Coleridge and Southey asso- 
ciated together (p. 9)? 

How did Coleridge attempt to 
make a living after leaving 
the university? 

Give a brief account of his re- 



Introduction. 

Text. 

Notes. 



lations with Wordsworth (p. 

12, etc.). 

When did Coleridge do most of 
his best poetical work? 

What foreign visit did he 
make, and what was its 
effect on his literary aspira- 
tions? 

What dangerous habit affected 
his achievement, and for 
how long? 

Name a great contemporary of 
Coleridge who had the same 
trouble. 

What was Coleridge's occupa- 
tion during the latter part of 
his life? 

When did he die? 

Can you find out anything 
about Coleridge's children? 

Tell something as to the im- 
portance in literary history 
of the volume in which Tlie 
Ancient Mariner was first 
published. 

In what two different ways 
was the "return to nature" 
illustrated in the contents 
of The Lyrical Ballads (p. 
15)? 

Distinguish carefully between 



40 



teacher's manual 



the work of Wordsworth 
and that of Coleridge. 
Do you find the cliaracteristics 
attributed to Wordsworth in 
tlie lines he is said to have 
suggested for The Ancient 
Mariner? 

The Ancient Mariner: 

Describe how this poem came 
to be written (p. 13, 14). 
What was Wordsworth's 
share in it? In what impor- 
tant volume was it first pub- 
lished? 

What is its main lesson (p, 19)? 

What two kinds of torture does 
tiie Mariner have to endure? 

How is the spell over him 
broken? 

Point out ways in which the 
poem is given a supernatural 
atmosphere (note p. 61). 

Who are the speakers in stan- 
zas I, II, and III? 

What are the antecedents of 
the pronouns in III and IV? 

Point out indications of direc- 
tions and localities in VII, 
VIII, XXI, and anywhere 
else you find them in the 
poem. 

Point out striking examples of 
dramatic suggestion as to the 
appearance or action of the 
Mariner (XX, etc.). 

Are we told directly who are 
the occupants of the phan- 
tom ship (XLIV, etc.)? 
What method is used? Is it 
effective? Why? 



What is the purpose of the 
wedding guest's interrup- 
tions (LII, LXXIX)? 

The purpose of the Mariner's 
reference in CXXXV to the 
wedding? 

Narrate in the briefest possible 
form the actual happenings 
of the poem. 

What is tlie measure of the 
poem? 

Describe the commonest varia- 
tions from the normal line 
(p. 23) and give examples of 
each, chosen from your own 
reading. 

What variations of stanza do 
you find? Give examples. 

What is the effect of the 
rhymes in XII? 

Comment on metrical effectsi 
in stanzas XXXV, XLVIII, 
LVIII, LXXXVII. 

Select other stanzas in whichi 
you find striking metrical 
effects. 

Point out several good exam- 
ples of alliteration. 

What is the purpose and effect 
of the old words? 

Make a list of the obsolete 
words you find? 

What strikingly commonplace, 
almost vulgar words do you 
find? 

Point out some extremely sim- 
ple figures, taken from com- 
mon life. 

Are they effective? 

Comment on XLVII and the 
gloss, with special reference 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



41 



to the effect of the verbs and 

figures. 
Comment on the figures and 

sound effects in LXXXII-IV. 
Point out good examples of the 

use of specific words. 
From references to sounds and 

from the meter of this poem 

what should you say as to 

Coleridge's musical sense? 
What conclusion do you reach 

as to his imagination? 

Life of Lowell : 
When was he born? 
Where was he educated? 
What profession did he study 

for after graduation? 
How did he make his start in 

hterature (p. 67)? 
What was his literary success? 
Where did he live during most 

of his life? 
What diplomatic positions did 

he hold? 
What two important works 

appeared in 1848? 
Describe briefly The Bigloiv 

Papers (p. 70). 
What has been the popularity 

of Tlie Virion of Sir Launfalf 
Why was Lowell particularly 

well suited to enforce the 

moral of this poem (pp. 

73-74)? 
What important work, not 

poetical, did he do? 

The Vision of Sir Launfal : 
Wliat was the Holy Grail? 
What was the cause of its 



di[s appearance? Who 
searched for it, and — accord- 
ing to the common story — by 
whom was it found (p. 71)? 

What can you say as to the 
antiquity and literary im- 
portance of this legend? 

In what ways did Lowell en- 
large the "circle of compe- 
tition"? And what addi- 
tional conditions to success 
did he impose? 

Outline the changes wrought 
in Sir Launfal during his 
search for the Grail (pp. 
72-73)? 

What, then, is the essential 
moral lesson of this poem? 

What is the purpose and effect 
of the first stanza in relation 
to the rest of the poem? 

Where does the "Vision" begin 
and where does it end? 

Note the editor's questions on 
p. 79, Introduction. 

In what two ways does Sir 
Launfal see himself in his 
dream (note, p. 100)? Point 
out instances of each. 

What is the poet's purpose in 
introducing the caravan in 
Part II, stanza III? 

What is the most prominent 
poetical quality in this poem 
(pp. 7G-77)? Choose for your- 
self several of the most strik- 
ing examples of it. 

Trace out in detail the figure 
begun by the word "out- 
post," p. 88, 1. 1. 

Notice how architectural terms 



42 



teachee's makual 



run through the Prelude to 
Part II. 

Note questions on pp. 101, 103, 
as to figures, and on p. 99 as 
to the metrical effect of the 
first stanza. Scan 1. 6, p. 98. 



Point out some good examples 
of alliteration. 

How does this poem compare 
with The Ancient Mariner in 
imagination? In metrical 
effects? In musical effect? 



THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Edited 
by Robert Herrick, A.B., Associate Professor of English, the University 
of Chicago. Chicago: Scott, Poresman and Company, pp. 367. 35 cents. 



Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction. 

I. Biographical Sketch. 

New England Influence. 

Ancestry. 

Salem. 

Early Life. 

Twelve Years of Waiting. 

First Stories. 

Brook Farm. 

The Old Manse. 

The Scai'let Letter. 

Europe, 1853-1860, and Last 

Years. 
Personal Qualities. 



Hawthorne's Life: 

Tell the most important facts 
regarding Hawthorne's an- 
cestors (pp. 3-4). 

What stories told of an}^ of 
them has he apparently used 
in The House of the Seven 
Gables? 

Where did the family live? 

What important influences did 
Hawthorne's ancestry and 
his early home have upon 
his work? 

Where was he educated? 



II. The Tales and Romances. 
Small Body of Literary 

Work. 
Children's Stories. 
The Romances. 

III. The House of the Seven Oor 

bles. 
The Pyncheons and the 

Hawthornes. 
Essentially a Romance. 

IV. Suggestions for Studying 

The House of the Seven 
Gables, 
Style. 

Composition. 
Construction. 
Additional Reading. 
Author's Preface. 
Text. 

What persons afterward fa- 
mous were his schoolmates in 
college at Bowdoin? 

What did Hawthorne do after 
graduation from college? 

Under what name were his 
early stories collected? 

What small government posi- 
tion did he hold? (Compare 
Burns's position as excise 
commissioner. ) 

In what interesting communis- 
tic experiment did Haw- 
thorne have a share? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



43 



What book later resulted from 

this? 
After his marriage where did 

he live (p. 9)? 
What book is the product of 

these next years? 
Name some important literary 

men who were friends of 

Hawthorne at this time. 
Wliat was Hawthorne's first 

long romance? The result of 

its publication? 
Name his other novels written 

in America in the order of 

their publication. 
What diplomatic position did 

Hawthorne hold? 
What romance resulted from 

his sojourn in Italy? 
Did he do any literary work 

after returning to America? 
VvHien did he die? 
Describe his most noteworthy 

personal qualities. 

His Work. 

What is Hawthorne's rank 

among American authors as 

to style and workmanship (p. 

14)? 
What is the literary value of 

his Note-Books (p. 13, etc.)? 
Characterize briefly his short 

stories. His children's sto- 
ries (pp. 15-16). 
Which are regarded as the 

greatest of his romances? 

Which the more pleasant? 
What is said to be the special 

theme of his imagination (p. 

8)? 



The House of the Seven Ga- 
bles — Development op the 
Plot: 

Nearly all the events re- 
ferred to in Chapter I pre- 
cede by many years this 
story. What, then, does this 
chapter do for the plot? 

What effect is prominent in the 
account of the events pre- 
ceding Colonel Pyncheon's 
death? Why should they 
be described at such length? 

Summarize briefly the situa 
tion (as given on pp. 48-50) 
regarding the descendants of 
Colonel Pyncheon and Mat- 
thew Maule and their worldly 
condition. 

Describe the house of the seven 
gables. 

How does Hawthorne excuse 
the slowness with which he 
gets his story in motion in 
Chapter II (p. 60)? 

Describe Hepzibah's shop. 

Does Chapter III develop prin- 
cipally plot or character? 

What important facts are re- 
vealed in Chapter IV regard- 
ing Hepzibah's relations 
with the Judge? 

Why are we told of the Judge's 
resemblance to the old Col- 
onel? 

Trace in Chapter V the prog- 
ress of Phoebe's relations 
with Hepzibah. 

What acquaintance of impor- 
tance has its beginning in 
Chapter VI? 



44 



teacher's MAl^UAL 



How are we prepared through 
the previous chapters for 
the return of Clifford in 
Chapter VII (pp. 46, 94, 98, 
104-5, 126-27, etc.)? 

Are we prepared in any way 
for his personal characteris- 
tics? 

Notice how in Chapter VIII 
the Judge's resemblance to 
the old Colonel is accen- 
tuated again. 

Why does Clifford show such 
horror of the Judge? 

What progress does the story 
make in Chapters IX, X, and 
XI? 

What is the explanation of 
Clifford's strange action 
when the political procession 
passes (p. 200)? 

What is the main purpose of 
Chapter XII? Of the story 
of Alice Pyncheon (Chapter 
XIII)? 

Why should Holgrave be given 
mesmeric power in Chapter 
XIV? 

Why should the author have 
Phoebe go away at this time? 

What important revelations 
as to the relations between 
Judge Pyncheon and Clif- 
ford are made in Chapter 
XV? 

Is there anything significant 
in the natural background of 
this chapter, ^ — the storm? 

What effect is prominent in 
Chapter XVI (suspense) ? 
Show how it is produced. 



Why does Clifford act as he 
does? 

Why do he and Hepzibah run 
away? 

When and where are we first 
told definitely that the Judge 
is dead? 

Trace out in 'previous chapters 
the various kinds of prepara- 
tion for his fate (pp. 86, 156, 
etc.). 

Why is Chapter XVIII pro- 
longed to such length? 

Show by a summary the cli- 
mactic arrangement of Chap- 
ter XIX. 

What is the effect in this 
chapter of the contact with 
the everyday world after 
the horror of the preceding 
chapter? 

What is Holgrave's explana- 
tion of the Judge's death 
(Chapter XX)? 

What preparation has there 
been for the love of Hol- 
grave and PhoebeT 

What preparation for the reve- 
lation of Holgrave's personal 
identity in Chapter XXI (pp. 
190, 221-22, 249 etc.)? 

How is poetic justice done in 
the conclusion of the story? 

Characters : 

Do you find the characters 

dimly outlined, typical, as 

indicated on p. 19? 
Whicli of tliem seems most 

real and individual? 
Do any of them show develop- 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



45 



ment during the progress of 
the story? If you find any 
such, show the different 
stages of development. 

Write character sketches of 
H e p z i b a h, the Judge, 
Phoebe, Clifford, and Hol- 
grave. 

Did Hawthorne intend us to 
regard Clifford as partly 
insane? 

Style: 

Point out striking examples of 
Hawthorne's fine discrimin- 
ation in the choice of famil- 
iar words and phrases. 

Look up unfamiliar words and 
comment on their appropri- 
ateness. 

Do you find any bad sentences? 

Pick out complex sentences 
at haphazard and try differ- 
ent ways of arranging the 
clauses. Can you improve 
on any of them? 

Do you find much use of fig- 
urative language? 

Are the figures chiefly charac- 



terized by beauty or by 

strength? 
Show examples in which each 

quality is prominent. 
Is there any humor in the 

story? Point out the best 

examples of it which you 

find. The best examples of 

irony or sarcasm. 

General Comment 

State in your own words what 
Hawthorne means by a "ro- 
mance" (see his Preface). 

Does he intend this story to 
teach any lesson? 

In what way does he think 
stories should teach, if they 
teach at all (pp. 24-25)? 

Does he ever offend against 
this principle? 

How is the supernaturalism 
introduced into The House of 
the Seven Gables, — directly 
or by implication? Does the 
author express his belief in 
it, or does he suggest the 
possibility of natural causes? 
Give examples. 



46 



teacher's manual 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. Sir Walter Scott. With %^ 
Introduction by William Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assistant Professor oi 
English, the University of Chicago, and a Glossary and Notes by Mary 
R. Willai'd, Instructor in English, High School, Jamestown, N. Y, 
Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 211. 25 cents. 

CONTENTS 
Text. 



Introduction. 

I. Life of Scott. 

II. Scott's Place in the Roman- 
tic Movement. 
III. The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

For a list of questions and sug- 
gestions on the life of Scott 
and his place in the Romantic 
movement see TJie Lady of 
^/ieZ/aA;e(p. 32 of this Manual). 

What was the date of publica- 
tion of this poem (pp. 21, 22)? 

What chronological place does 
it hold in the order of Scott's 
works? 

What was its success? Why ? 

How was the story suggested 
to Scott? 

Are there any evidences that 
Scott was trying to draw a 
resemblance between his 
relations with the Countess 
of Dalkeith and those of the 
ancient Minstrel with the 
Duchess of Buccleugh? 

Introduction : 

What is the framework of tlie 
whole story? Where is it 
stated? Is it a happy device 
(p. 20)? 

Is there any significance in 
Scott's putting the story in 
the mouth of a Minstrel? 

Notice the Interludes at the 
end of each Canto. What 



Map— The Borderland of England 

and Scotland. 
Notes. 
Glossary. 

purpose do they serve? (Pre- 
vent us from forgetting that 
it is the Minstrel who is 
speaking. ) 

Are there other passages where 
the Minstrel speaks in his 
own person? 

What is the fate of the Min- 
strel? 

Is it probable that one in hig 
condition (p. 63) could have 
sung sucii a song as this? 
Does this consideration mat- 
ter? 

Point out the influences of 
ballad literature on the 
poem. 

I. Where is the first hint that 
the Ladye was addicted to 
Magic (p. 65)? 

Is your first impression one of 
reality or are you carried at 
once into a land of the imag- 
ination? 

What events happening before 
the opening of the poem are 
described here? 

Where are v/e told of Lord 
Cranstoun's love for Lady 
Margaret? Why was he not 
acceptable to her mother? 



POK THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



47 



Is the dialogue of the Spirits 
(p. 71) necessary to the plot? 
What is the prophecy? How 
will the Ladye evade it? 

How has the plot been ad- 
vanced in this Canto? 

How much space is taken up 
with the description of the 
castle? 

II. How did William of Delor- 
aine obtain the book of St. 
Michael? 

Who was the lonely watcher 
at the tomb? 

Is there justification for devot- 
ing as much space as this to 
this episode? Why do you 
call this an episode? Note 
its connection as the plot 
advances. Is the book of St, 
Michael necessary (p. 55)? 

Where is the first mention of 
the Dwarf? 

Does this introduction of 
another supernatural ele- 
ment increase the unreal- 
ity? 

We are told that Scott began 
with the intention of making 
the Dwarf (Gilpin Horner) 
the principal character in 
the poem. What are the 
evidences of this? 

III. What is the necessity of 
having the young lord en- 
ticed away from the castle 
by the Dwarf? Note what 
use is afterwards made of 
this (Canto IV). 

Note the continual tricks of 
the Dwarf. 



What other incidents are con- 
tained in this Canto? 

IV. Why is the rising of the 
Border described so fully? 

Does this furnish a good pic- 
ture of the mediaeval border 
life? 

Where does the Dwarf appear 
in this Canto? 

What was the difference in 
disposition between the two 
English commanders (p. 
133)? 

How does the Ladye's Magic 
aid her here? 

V. Discuss the truce between 
the two armies (p. 141) — 
its probability, etc. (see 
Stanza VII). 

How was Lord Cranstoun 
knowm to Lady Margaret '^in 
his disguise? When do we 
first recognize him? 

Com.pare the descriiDtion of the 
combat (p. 150) with a sim- 
ilar description in any one 
of Scott's novels. 

When is the prophecy ful- 
filled? 

Is the poem completed at the 
end of this Canto? 

VI. What are the main inci- 
dents of this Canto? What 
have they to do with the 
plot? 

Could this Canto have been 
dropped without harm to 
the poem? 

Where is the last mention of 
the Goblin (p. 175)? 

As the poem stands, is the 



48 



teacher's manual 



author justified in devoting 
as much space as he does to 
the Goblin's pranks? 

Could the young boy have been 
enticed away from the castle 
in any other manner than 
the one employed? Could 
the Lord Cranstoun have 
counterfeited the likeness 
of William of Deloraine in 
any other way? 

Discuss the employment of the 
supernatural in this poem 
(see pp. 56 ff . ) and contrast it 
with its use in The Lady of 
the Lake. 

Plot in General: 

Do you find in the poem a 
well-defined and regularly 
developed plot, or is it a 
patchwork of incidents? 

Write the plot in detail, 
avoiding unimportant de- 
tails, and find out in how few 
words you can do it. 

Describe the main incidents. 
What ones are necessary to 
the plot? State exactly how. 

Character : 

Are there good studies of char- 
acter in the poem? 

Do the figures seem indistinct 
and dimly drawn to you? 



Compare the characters with 
those of The Lady of the 
Lake. 

Description . 

Are the descriptions vivid'r 
Note the description of Mel- 
rose Abbey by moonlight (p. 
80) ; the extended description 
of the castle in Canto I ; the 
rising of the Border; the 
combat, and the pledging of 
the vows of the lovers. 

Compare the treatment of 
landscape in the Lay with 
that in The Lady of the 
Lake. 

Also compare the combat (p 
150) with the fight of Rod 
erick Dhu and James Fitz- 
James. 

Style: 

What poem influenced the 
verse form of the Lay? 
Compare the two. 

Why did Scott want to escape 
the responsibility of intro- 
ducing a new verse form (p. 
21)? 

How many accents are there 
in each line? How many syl- 
lables? Is the number of syl 
lables uniform? What gen 
eral effect has this metre? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



49 



JULIUS CAESAR. William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan Neilson, 



M.A., Ph.D., Harvard Univ^ersity. 
pany. pp. 194. 35 cents. 
Preface. 
Contents. 
Introduction. 

I. Shakspere and the English 
Drama. 
The Drama Before Shak- 
spere. 
Shakspere's Early Life. 
The Elizabethan Theatre. 
Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
velopment. 
Shakspere's Last Years. 

The Drama: 

In what did the drama origin- 
ate? 

Describe briefly the miracle 
plays.tellingwhere they were 
performed, by whom, and 
what, in general, was their 
subject matter (pp. 12, 13). 

What elements were contained 
in the miracle plays that 
had an influence toward the 
development of comedy? 

What were moralities? Inter- 
ludes? 

What foreign influences con- 
tributed to the development 
of the Elizabethan drama? 

Name several of Shakspere's 
predecessors in the drama. 
Who was the greatest of 
them? 

Describe briefly the theatre of 
Shakspere's day (pp. 22-23). 
The characteristics of a 
ShaksiDerean audience. 

Shakspere's Career: 
When and where was Shak- 
spere born? 



Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Com- 

II. Julius Caesar. 
Date. 

Source of the Text. 
Source of the Plot. 
Metre. 
Language. 

Comparison of Julius Cae- 
sar and North's Plu- 
tarch. , 
Text. 
Notes. 
Word Index. 

What can you say as to his 
education (p. 18)? His occu- 
pations before he went to 
London? 

What do we know about his 
early years in London? 

What were his first dramatic 
efl"orts (p. 20)? What other 
literary work, besides the 
writing of plays, did he 
do? 

Learn the general characteris- 
tics of Shakspere's work dur- 
ing each of the four periods 
into which it is divided, and 
the names of representative 
plays of each period. 

What can you say of Shaks- 
pere's last years (p. 28)? 

Julius Caesar — External 
Facts : 

What is the probable date of 
composition of Julius Cae- 
sar? Its chronological rela- 
tion to the series of Shaks- 
pere's greatest tragedies? 

When was it first published? 

What is the source of its plot? 



50 



teacher's MAITUAL 



Describe Shakspere's general 
method in handling this 
source (pp. 31-33). 

Progress of the Plot: 

What is the dramatic purpose 
of I, i, (note, p. 159)? 

In I, ii, what is the effect of the 
soothsayer's warning? 

What is the purpose and effect 
of the flourishes and shouts 
while Brutus and Cassius are 
speaking? 

What does Antony's appear- 
ance at the beginning of the 
scene indicate as to his im- 
portance in the play? 

Is Cassius supposed to hear 
Caesar's remarks about him 

' (11. 192 ff.)? 

How should the characters be 
arranged on the stage at this 
time? 

State in outline what is accom- 
plished in I, iii. 

What is the dramatic purpose 
and effect of the portents? 

In II, i, what is the purpose of 
11. 101-111 (note, p. 170)? 

Whose judgment is best as to 
Antony, Cassius's or Brutus's 
(p. 77)? 

What later conflict of judg- 
ment resembles this (III, i, 
232)? 

Why is it intimated' in lines 
193-94 that Caesar may not 
come to the Capitol on the 
Ides of March? 

In II, ii, why is a second ac- 
count of the prodigies given? 



What striking bit of dramatic 
irony and blindness is there 
near the end of this scene? 

What is the effect on an audi- 
tor of Caesar's attitude 
toward the conspirators? 

What is the dramatic effect of 
II, iii (note, p. 175)? 

What two purx)oses does II, iv, 
serve? 

For III, i, plan an arrangement 
of characters on the stage 
(up to the assassination) and 
decide what persons are ad- 
dressed in the different short 
speeches at the beginning 
(pp. 94-95). 

Are the speeches of Cassius and 
Brutus (11. 111-16) natural 
at that time? Why did 
Shakspere write them? 

In III, ii, what does Brutus try 
to do in his speech? 

Trace out the main divisions 
of Antony's speech, show- 
ing what he accomplishes in 
each. 

When does his voice first be- 
come sarcastic in referring 
to the conspirators as "hon- 
ourable men"? 

How are we prepared before 
this scene for the eloquence 
he shows here? 

Describe Antony's course with 
regard to Caesar's will. Was 
it more effective than if he 
had read the will directly? 

From this scene what do you 
decide as to Shakspere's opin- 
ion of the common people? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



51 



What purpose can you assign 
for III, iii (note p. 182)? 

What is the purpose of IV, i? 
Of IV, ii? 

How is the plot advanced by 
the trouble between Brutus 
and Cassius in IV, iii? 

State clearly the reasons for 
the trouble and the reasons 
for the reconciliation. 

Is Cassius convinced by Bru- 
tus's reasons for meeting 
their opponents at Philippi? 
Why does he yield? 

What dramatic device in this 
scene shows that Caesar's 
spirit dominates the action 
which is to result in the fall 
of the conspirators? 

In V, i, what does the first 
speech of Octavius indicate 
as to the wisdom of Brutus's 
decision in the previous 
scene? 

Trace as clearly as possible the 
progress of the battle 
through this act. 

Is there any point where the 
play could very well end 
before it does? 

The Plot as a whole : 
What incident begins the real 
complication of the play? 
How does Shakspere point 
out this incident? 
What incident (in this case a 
speech) begins the resolution 
of the play, — marks the be- 
ginning of the fall of the 
conspirators? 



Is that part of the play which 
precedes the speech of An- 
tony, or that which follows 
it, the more interesting? 

What are the real causes of 
Caesar's downfall? Of Bru. 
tus's? 

Criticise or justify the naming 
of the play. 

What dramatic use is made of 
the supernatural? 

Point out examples of dra- 
matic irony and dramatic 
blindness. 

The Characters: 

What characteristics of Bru- 
tus and Cassius respectively 
are shown in I, ii? 

What idea do you get of Casca? 

What attitude of Ri-utus to- 
ward Caesar is indicated in 
II, i? 

What is indicated as to Bru- 
tus's character in his rela- 
tions with his servant and 
his wife? 

Is Brutus 's action when he 
hears of the death of his 
wife unfeeling? How can 
you account for it? 

Describe the character of 
Portia? 

Contrast the relations of Bru- 
tus and Portia with those of 
Caesar and Calpurnia. 

Point out the various ways in 
which the character of Cae- 
sar is belittled. 

Does this belittlement indi- 
cate Shakspere 's real atti- 



52 



teacher's manual 



tude toward Caesar, or is 
there a dramatic purpose 
in it? 

What indication do we find as 
to Cicero's character in II, i? 

Is there any truth in Antony's 
characterization of himself 
(III, ii, 225 ff.)? Does he 
mean it to be taken as true? 

Which appears to greater ad- 
vantage in the quarrel of 
Brutus and Cassius? 

How is Cassius 's superiority to 
Brutus as a man of affairs 
show^n in the play? 

What groups of characters are 
there in this play? 

What character do you find 
who is portrayed chiefly by 



the influence which 
exerts on others? 



he 



The Form of the Play : 

What is the regular metre of 
Julius Caesar? 

Find examples for yourself of 
each of the variations de- 
scribed on pp. 34-35. 

In wdiat places do you find 
rhyme used? 

In I, i, why do the tribunes 
speak in verse, the common- 
ers in prose? 

Why does Casca speak in f>rose 
in I, ii ; in verse in I, iii? 

In III, ii, why does Brutus 
speak in prose, Antony in 
verse? 



CARLYLE'S ESSAY ON BURNS. Edited by George B. Alton, State 
Inspector of High Schools, Minnesota. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and 
Company, pp. 147. 25 cents. 
Preface. Comments on the Essay. 

Introduction. Bibliography. 

Map. Text. 

Carlyle. Notes. 

Burns. Glossary. 



Life of Carlyle: 

What can you say as to tlie 
characteristics of the Car- 
lyle family? 

When and where was Thomas 
Carlyle born? 

Where was he educated? 

What was his success as a 
student? 

What occupation was he edu- 
cated for at first? 

What occupation did he ac- 



tually follow after complet- 
ing his university course? 

What important change in 
his plans for the future did 
he soon make (p. 15)? 

What was now his condition 
and what his attitude to- 
ward life? 

What was the first literary 
work he did (p. 16)? And 
what kind of work followed 
for several years? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



53 



)escribe briefly Carlyle's rela- 
tions with Jane Welsh (pp. 
18, 19). 

Vhat important critic became 
his friend? 

Vhither did the Carlyles move 
shortly before 1828 (p. 21)? 

Vhen and where was the 
Bums essay written? When 
and where published? 

Vhere did Carlyle live during 
the greater i^art of his life? 

[ame some of his most impor- 
tant works? 

Vhat is said of his general in- 
fluence (p. 23)? What of the 
particular influence of this 

'~ essay (p. 37)? 

Vhen did Carlyle die? 

Describe his personal character 
as fully as possible. 

^hy was he particularly fitted 
to write about Burns? 

l,iFE OF Burns: 

^hen and where was Burns 
born? 

vVhat were the circumstances 
of his family? 

What educational advantages 
did he have? 

Bow early in life did he begin 
poetical com^wsition? 

Where and under what cir- 
cumstances was most of his 
best work done (p. 25)? 

Where and when was his first 
volume published ( p. 27)? 
What was its success? 

What government position did 
Burns hold? 



Describe briefly his manner of 
life during his later years. 

When and at what age did he 
die? 

Prepare an outline of the 
points of contrast between 
the lives of Carlyle and 
Burns, as stated on p. 29. 

Content of the Essay: 

What does this essay purport 
to be? 

What proportion of it is de- 
voted to discussion of the 
book that suggested it? 

Compare it with the present- 
day review, e. g., in a city 
daily paper. 

What does Carlyle consider 
the requirements of the ideal 
biography (pp. 47-48)? 

Does this essay, in so far as it 
is biographical, fulfill these 
requirements? 

Do you agree in all respects 
with Carlyle's estimate of 
Burns's poetical disadvan 
tages (see notes, i^p. 132- 
33)? 

What does Carlyle say or imply 
concerning the function and 
nature of literary criticism 
(p. 51 and elsewhere)? 

What is Carlyle's estimate of 
the value to the world of a 
true poet (p. 52 and else- 
where)? 

What is the first rare excel- 
lence which Carlyle finds in 
Burns? 

What poet who did not usually 



54 



teachee's manual 



possess this excellence does 
he contrast with Burns? 

When is Burns not sincere? 
And why? 

What is the second peculiar 
merit Carlyle finds in 
Burns'spoetry (p. 61)? (Note 
how this agrees with 
Wordsworth's theory of po- 
etry.) 

What does Carlyle say of 
Burns's intellectual power? 
Of the range of his sym- 
pathy? 

WJuit does Carlyle regard tlie 
most strictly poetical of all 
Burns's poems, not including 
the songs? 

What rank does he assign to 
the songs? 

Summarize the excellencies 
which he points out. 

What is the essence of Carlyle's 
comment on the influence of 
Burns on the nationality of 
literature (pp. 85 ff . )? 

Do you think a university 
training v/ould have aided 
Burns in w^riting his kind of 
poetry (compare p. 94 with 
note, p. 139)? 

What on the whole w^as the 
effect, according to Carlyle, 
of Burns's visit to Edin- 
burgh? 

What was the crisis in Burns's 
life? 

Do j'^ou agree that there were 
for him only the three possi- 
bilities that Carlyle mentions 
(p. 113)? 



What were the chief causes of 
Burns's failure? 

Note carefully the points of 
resemblance and difference 
which Carlyle points out be- 
tween Burns and Byron. 

Note other literary references 
in the essay, besides those 
to Byron. 

Show the unfairness of the 
reference to Keats (p. 71). 

What conclusions do you 
reach from this essa}^, as to 
Carlyle's insight into char- 
acter, his attitude toward 
morality, his enthusiasm? 

Style of the Essay: 

What can you say in general 
as to the range of Carlyle's 
vocabulary? 

jDoes he use predominatingly 
long or short, Anglo-Saxon 
or Latin words? 

Note in this connection that 
critical terms are generally 
of classic origin. 

Are Carlyle's words aptly 
chosen? 

Point out a number of unusual 
words which, w^hen thor- 
oughly understood, seem es- 
pecially appropriate. 

What language, possibly, in- 
fluenced Carlyle in his use of 
capitals? 

What can you say as to the 
length of Carlyle's sentences? 

Do you find any of them which 
are not clear after you have 
looked up all unusual words 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



55 



and all references unknown 
to you? 

"^^ote any which seem to lack 
coherence or unity. 

)o you find the sentences gen- 
erally emphatic? 

'oint out as many ways as 
you can by which emphasis 
is secured. 

)oes Carlyle seem to be talking 
at you, or to a congregation, 
or simply expressing his 
views in writing? 

)o his attitude and feeling 
seem like those of an earnest 
preacher? Illustrate. 

)o you find any paragraphs 
which lack unity? 

*oint out two or three good 
examples of coherence be- 
tween paragraphs. 

)o you find any confusingly 



abrupt transitions from par- 
agraph to paragraph? 

What can you say as to the 
frequency of Carlyle's de- 
velopment by specific illus- 
tration? Its effectiveness? 

Select and explain in detail 
several of the most appropri- 
ate illustrations and refer- 
ences. 

Do you find much figurative 
language in this essay? Is 
it highly imaginative? 

From what realm are the fig- 
ures most often taken? 

Select some of the best figures 
and show wherein they are 
effective. 

Point out all examples of irony 
or sarcasm which you find. 
Can you tell wherein they 
are effective? 



'ALAMON AND ARCITE or The Knight's Tale from Chaucer by John 
Dryden. Edited by May Estelle Cook, A.B., Instructor in English, 
South Side Academy, Chicago. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Com- 
pany, pp. 173. 25 cents. 



iONTENTS. 

•rbfacb. 
ntroduction. 

Chaucer. 

Dryden. 

The Story of Palamon and Ar- 
cite. 

Dryden's Style. 

/HAUCER : 

Recount the facts of Chaucer's 

life. 
Vas he exclusively a man of 

letters (p. 10)? 



Dryden's Estimate of Chaucer. 

Suggestions to Teachers. 

Bibliography. 
Dbydkn's Dedication to Her 
Grace the Duchess of Obmond. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Glossary. 

What official position did he 
hold? 

Who was his greatest contem- 
porary (p. 15)? 

What is his best known poem? 



56 



teacher's manual 



Who were the kings of Eng- 
land during his lifetime? 

Did the English precede the 
French and Italians in ap- 
preciating the fact that the 
knight was a fit subject for 
song and story'? 

Chaucer's Language: 

What was the state of the 
English language at Chau- 
cer's birth? 

When did the union of the 
Anglo-Saxon and the Nor- 
man - French become the 
speech of the English nation? 

What is Chaucer's share in the 
development of the language 

(p. 15)? 

Did Chaucer's language differ 
greatly from that of the 
other writers of the day? 
Does it differ in a great de- 
gree from the language of to- 
day (p. IC)? 

Write in modern prose the ex- 
tract from Chaucer given 
on pages 129-30. 

Dryden : 

Recount the facts of Dryden's 

Hfe. 
What position did he hold that 

Chaucer had held? 
What was Dryden's position 

among the literary men of 

the day (p. IT)? 
Was he consistent in his politi- 
cal and religious views (p. 

18)? 
What different literary species 

did he undertake? 



Name six of his poems. 

What qualities of his prose 
style are mentioned? 

What is his share in the devel- 
opment of English prose (p. 
20)? 

Why did he fail as a writer ofl 
comedies (p. 20)? 

Chaucer and Dryden : 

From what one of Chaucer's 
poems is the story of Pala- 
mon and Arcite taken? 

State the general plan of the 
Canterbury Tales (p. 22)? 

From whom did Chaucer take 
the story of the Knighfs 
Tale? Is it merely a trans- 
lation? 

Is Dryden's version a strict 
translation of Chaucer (p. 
24)? 

Is the poem more Chaucer's or 
Dryden's? 

What was the estimate of 
Chaucer in the "Classic Age" 
of English literature? 

What did Dryden think of 
Chaucer? Why did he re- 
write his poems (p. 32)? 

What did the age think of 
Dryden's translations? 

Do the two poets use the same 
versification in this poem? 

What is the difference between 
the romantic couplet and the 
classical couplet? Does the 
sense end with the couplet 
more often in Dryden than 
in Chaucer? 

Compare any number of lines 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



57 



of Chaucer with any number 
of Dryden and write out your 
reasons why you think that 
Ghaucer's verse is the more 
musical. 

How do the two poets differ 
in their use of words? 

J^ote all the differences in style 
that you can discover and 
give illustrations. 

Chaucer's style is simple and 
condensed, Dryden's artifi- 
cial and indirect: find con- 
trasts in these characteristics 
in the extracts from Chaucer 
furnished and in Dryden's 
poem. 

•Compare the treatment of 
external nature by each poet. 
Take the description of the 
lark on page 73, the descrip- 
tion of Emily on page 54, 
and the account of Arcite's 
death on page 129 (particu- 
larly Arcite's last words) and 
state definitely why Dry- 
den's description is inferior. 

Dryden's Style: 

Write out fifty words used by 
Dryden that are used to-day 
with a different meaning. 

Is his syntax always correct? 
Have the pupils collect in- 
stances of his faulty syntax 
and rewrite them with a 
view to correcting them. 

Give examples of alliteration. 

Is its use effective? 

Note particularly Dryden's use 
of balanced sentences. How 



many examples do you find 
on page 12b? Do they be- 
come monotonous? 

Are his personifications effect- 
ive, or merely "capital let- 
ter personifications"? 

Scan twenty-five perfect lines. 

Collect and tabulate instances 
of his variation of the 
rhythm. Of triple rhymes. 
Of Alexandrines. Of imper- 
fect rhymes. 

What do you think of Dry- 
den's power of reasoning in 
rhyme (p. 140)? 

Characters : 

Can you distinguish clearly 
between the figures of 
Palamon and Arcite? Are 
they real figures or only 
types? Characterize each of 
them. Which one deserves 
Emily best (right of priority ; 
difference in their prayers; 
efforts to gain her)? 

Does Emily seem a strong 
character? Are her actions 
consistent? 

How does she help'the plot? 

What sort of a character do 
you call this? 

Do you have a vivid picture of 
her in your mind? How old 
is she? Write a characteri- 
zation of her. 

Is the character of Theseus 
pictured plainly enough for 
you to characterize him? 

What other background figures 
are there in the poem? 



58 



TEACHER'S MANUAL 



What do you think of Dryden's 
power of characterization? 

Description : 

The following subjects will 
serve for descriptive themes: 
Emily's first appearance in 
the garden and the ensuing 
scene between Palamon and 
Arcite (pp. 56 ff . ) ; the meet- 
ing of Palamon and Arcite 
in the grove (pp. 75 ff . ) ; the 
tournament grounds (p. 90); 
the temple of Venus (pp. 91 
ff.); the temple of Mars (i^p. 
93 ff.); the temple of Diana 



(p. 97) ; the tournament — i 
preparation, the battle, i 
victory, and the overthr( 
of the victor (pp. 116 ff.) ; t 
death and burial of Arcite 
In writing these descriptic 
and characterizations t 
pupil should use his o^ 
words and not Dryden 
This rewriting of these pai 
of tlie poem is asked th 
the pupil may 'discover f 
himself the qualities of Di 
den's style and obtain 
clear comprehension of t 
story. 



THE ILIAD OP HOMER. Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV. Translated 
Alexander Pope. Edited by Wilfred Wesley Cressy, A.M., Professor 
English inOberlin College, and William Vaughn Moody, A.M., Assista 
Professor of English in the University of Chicago. Chicago: Sco 
Foresman and Company, pp. 203. 25 cents. 

Preface. III. 

Content.'?. IV. 

Introduction. Text. 

I. Life of Pope. Notes. 
II. Pope and his Times. 



Pope's Iliad. 

The Story of the Iliad. 



Life of Pope: 

When and where was Pope 

born? 
What was his religion and 

v/hat effect did this have on 

his education? 
What English poet was his 

early master? 
What famous dramatist was he 

influenced/by later on (p. 13)? 
After he reached maturity 

what three prose writers 

successively influenced him 

(p. 14)? Characterize briefly 



the nature of the influence ( 

each. 
WJiat is said of each of tl 

tv70 most important origin 

poems of Pope's first peric 

(pp. 15- IG)? 
Wliat advice was Pope endea 

oring to follow in his writir 

(p. 13)? 
During what years 'did Pope 

Iliad appear? What wj 

its success? The result f( 

Pope's literary standing? 
What personal quarrel wj 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



59 



brought to a crisis after the 
publication of the Iliad? 

Where did Pope remove to 
after his success? 

How long did he live there? 

Characterize briefly the Dun- 
ciad (p. 19). 

Whose influence is most prom- 
inent in it? 

Upon what important work 
was the influence of Boling- 
broke prominent? 

Tell what you can of Pope's 
personality. Of his disposi- 
tion and character. 

Characterize in general the 
times in which Pope lived 
(pp. 24-26). 

The Iliad— Subject Matter: 
Narrate briefly the course of 

events leading up to the 

Trojan War. 
How long did the war last? 
What is the duration in time 

of the events narrated in the 

Eiad? 
About how long after the be- 
ginning of the war did they 

take place? 
What is the state of hostilities 

when the Iliad begins? 
Trace out carefully in each 

book the progress of the 

main events, ignoring mere 

matters of detail. 
From these books whom should 

you take to be the hero of 

the Iliad, Achilles or Hector? 

Present arguments on both 

sides. 



Which character do you aa- 
mire more? 

In what relations and actions 
does Achilles appear noblest? 

Can you mention any friend- 
ships in history which seem 
to you to resemble that be- 
tween Achilles and Patro- 
clus? 

Characterize briefly, from the 
hints you get in these four 
books, Agamemnon, Ulysses, 
Nestor, Diomedes, Paris, 
Priam, Andromache, Helen. 

Describe the function of the 
gods in the Iliad. 

Are mortals permitted to per- 
form any important action 
without interference from 
the gods? 

Are the gods made to seem 
god-like, or only like human 
beings with greater than 
human power? 

Which are on the side of the 
Trojans? Which on the side 
of the Greeks? 

Are any inconsistent in their 
attitude? 

Manner op the Transla- 
tion: 

What are the four predominant 
qualities of Homer, accord- 
ing to Matthesv Arnold (p. 
27)? 

Show by several examples 
whicli you pick out for your- 
self, wherein and how Pope's 
translation lacks simplicity 
and directness of thought. 



60 



teacher's manual 



Pick out a number of places in 
which Pope's translation 
lacks simplicity of expres- 
sion. 

How many times in Book I do 
you find a woman referred 
to as "the fair"? 

Point out all the other artificial 
terms you find in this book. 

How many different expres- 
sions do you find for the sea? 

Criticize for simplicity of 
thought and expression the 
following passages : I, 634-39, 
712-13; VI, 67-76, 290-91, 329- 
33, 475-79, 594-601; XXIV, 
105-108. 

What conventionalities of 
eighteenth century verse 
interfered with rapidity of 
movement (p. 33)? 

Find as many examples as you 
can of excessive antithesis, — 
that is of antithesis which is 
unnatural to the sj^eech or 
action described. 

What is "run-on verse," re- 
ferred to at the top of p. 35? 
Find as many examples of 
it as you can. 

Does Pope convey an adequate 
idea of the nobility of Homer 
(p. 36)? 

What merits does your editor 
assign to Pope's Iliad (pp. 
37-39)? 

Can you make any additions 
to the list? 

What are the prominent char- 



acteristics of the Homer 
simile? Pick out several 
the most striking ones yc 
find.. 

Note the way in which pa 
sages are sometimes repeatt 
almost verbatim. How mar 
such examples do you find 
these books? Are they effec 
ive? Note Tennyson's im 
tation of this in Enoch A 
den and Morte d' Arthur. 

Lessing, in his Laocoon, a 
essay to show the limitatioi 
of painting and poetry, cit< 
Homer as describing 
thing by telling how it 
made (of. Iliad, Book I, 3( 
ff.)> not by trying to v: 
with drawing or painting 
Can you find examples c 
this? 

What is the regular metre c 
this poem? 

What variations of this metr 
are illustrated by the follo^^ 
ing lines: I, 8; I, 355-57; V] 
279-81? Find as many othe 
examples as you can of eaa 
of these variations. 

Point out several examples o 
effective alliteration. D 
you find any which soei 
to be overdone? 

Do you notice any imperfec 
rhymes? 

In what way can you accoun 
for some of them? 

Can you thus account for all? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



61 



MACAULAY'S ESSAYS on Milton and Addison. Edited by Alphonso G. 
Newcomer, Associate Professor of English in the Leland Stanford Junior 
University. Chicago: Scott, Poresman and Company, pp. 272. 30 cents. 



Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction, 

Macaulay's advent in the Edin- 
burgh Review. 

Effect on prose. 

The man. 

His work. « 

History of England. 

Essays. 

Organizing faculty. 

Illustrating faculty. 

Memory. 

Clearness and simplicity. 

Force. 

MacaulaY: 

.What is the date of Macaulay's 
first contribution to the 
Edinburgh Review? 

How old was he at this time? 

Who was the editor of this 
magazine? 

How long did Macaulay con- 
tinue to contribute to it (p. 
15)? 

Into what divisions do the 
writings of Macaulay fall (p. 
19)? 

Name six of Macaulay's best 
essays. 

What is their literary signifi- 

. cance (p. 38)? , 

What change did Macaulay 
bring about in the prose 
style of the first quarter of 
the nineteenth century (p. 
If))? 

What has been the influence 
of Macaulay's style on mod- 
ern journalism (p. 39)? 



Concreteness. 

Exaggeration. 

Antithesis and balance. 

Minor devices. 

Dogmatism. 

Ornament, rhythm. 

Temperamental defects. 

Literary significance. 

Influence on journalism. 

Real greatness. 
Chronology and Bibliography. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Glossary. 



His Style : 

Are the leading traits of Ma- 
caulay's character — brusque- 
ness, precision without 
fastidiousness, and self-con- 
fidence — illustrated in his 
style? 

His style is noted for clear- 
nesSj simplicity, force, bal- 
anced and antithetical 
structure, use of illustration, 
and use of exaggerations: 
collect illustrations of all 
these qualities from partic- 
ular passages from each 
essay. 

Note Macaulay's use of words. 
Are they long, short, com- 
mon, unusual, scientific, 
newly-coined, foreign, con- 
crete, general, pictorial, sug- 
gestive, of Latin or Saxon 
origin? 

What would you say of his use 
of words on p. 98? On p. 161? 



62 



teacher's MAISrUAL 



Examirke any ten consecu- 
tive pages for his use of 
words and tabulate your 
conclusions. What is the 
average length of his 
words? 

Note his sentence length and 
structure. 

Are any of his sentences too 
short for unity? Any too 
long for unity? Are they 
loose or periodic? 

Write down all the examples 
of loose sentences that you 
can find. 

Are his sentences effective, 
artistic, overworked? 

Examine any fifteen consecu- 
tive pages and write out 
your conclusions as to the 
average number of words 
in each sentence. 

How many sentences have 
fewer than fifteen words? 

How many more than thirty? 

How many violate the normal 
order? 

How does he obtain emphasis? 

What of his sentence length 
on page 97? 

Note the short sentences on p. 
165. Do you think it possible 
to connect these short sen- 
tences? 

On any two pages you may 
choose, how many complex 
sentences are there? How 
many compound? 

Is it possible to convert any of 
his complex sentences into 
compound ones? 



How does he connect para- 
graphs? 

Illustrate his unity of para- 
giapli structure from any 
six pages you choose. 

What is the topic sentence of 
the second paragraph on 
page 137? 

Select ten paragraphs, pick 
out and write down in your 
own words the topic sen- 
tence of each paragraph. Is 
it the first, the last, or the 
one in the middle of the 
paragraph? 

What relations do the other 
sentences bear to it? 

Does he use an abundance of 
figures of speech? Write 
out as many as you can find. 

What is the source of his il- 
lustrations? Do they seem 
forced (p. 36)? 

Does he presume the reader to 
be well informed? 

Does it seem true that he read 
everything and was incajja- 
ble of forgetting anything 
(p. 27)? 

Notice his use of rhetorical 
questions on pp. 92 and 100. 
What effect do they have? 

Does he ever sacrifice truth to 
brilliancy? 

Collect glaring instances of 
hyperbole. 

Essay on Milton: 

What proportion of this Essay 
is taken up by Milton's life 
and writings and what by the 



FOR THE LAKE EN"GLISH CLASSICS 



63 



Civil War and Macaulay's 
theory of poetic composition? 

What is his plan in taking up 
these topics in the order 
which he observes? 

Does this illustrate his faculty 
of organization (p. 24)? 

How does he proceed to his 
subject? 

Summarize Macaulay's esti- 
mate of Milton's minor 
poems (pp. 61 ff.)- 

Write a synopsis of Macaulay's 
reasons for holding that a 
great poem produced in a civ- 
ilized age is a more marked 
proof of genius than one writ- 
ten in an earlier age (pp. 50- 
51). 

What does he say of the enjoy- 
ment of poetry? Of the 
qualifications of a poet (p. 
56)? Of the general relation 
of poetry to civilization? 

Paraphrase in as few words as 
possible the comparison be- 
tween Dante and Milton (pp. 
67 ff.). 

Summarize the moral that 
Macaulay attempts to point 
from the excesses of revolu- 
tion (p. 99). 

Is Macaulay open to the same 
charge he prefers against 
Hume (p. 94)? Write out 
your reasons. 

Does the digression treating of 
the Civil War seem out of 
proportion (pp. 86-105)? 

Characterize the conclusion of 
the Essay. 



Why does Macaulay reserve for 
the end wdiat he says of 
Milton's personality? 

Essay on Addison: 

Compare the opening with that 
of the Essay on Milton. 

What is the purpose here (p. 
125)? 

What high praise does Ma- 
caulay give Addison (p. 128)? 
Note and justify these points 
as you read the Essay. 

Notice the general divisions of 
the Essay (pp. 125-129; 130- 
142; 143162; 163-188; 189- 
219; 220-239; 240-248). 

Summarize in a few words the 
main topics treated under 
each division. 

Which are the more important 
divisions? Which seem out 
of proportion? 

Is tlie order in which Macaulay 
takes them up a good one? 

Systematize under appropriate 
headings what Macaulay 
says of Addison's life, his 
character, and his writings. 

Write a sketch of Steele and 
his connection with Addi- 
son. 

Is Macaulay fair to Steele's 
character (pp. 184 ff.)? (See 
Introduction to the De Cover- 
ley Papers, Lake Classics. ) 

Note how Macaulay continues 
to emphasize the contrast 
between Addison and Steele 
(p. 224). 

Can you justify the space and 



64 



TEACHER'S MANUAL 



detailed treatment given to 

the Pope episode? 
Note how skillfully Macaulay 

reiterates Addison's virtues 

at the end (p. 248). 
Are there any new character- 
istics of Addison introduced 

here? 
Show where each one not new 

has been introduced before. 
Characterize the conclusion. 



Compare it with the conclu- 
sion of the Essay on Milton. 

Which of the two Essays illus- , 
t rates Macaulay 's style toj 
the better advantage? 

Summarize the chief points of 
difference in style between 
the two Essays. 

In which is there a greater 
proportion of short sen- 
tences? 



MILTON'S MINOR POEMS. L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus, and Lycidas. 
Edited by William Allan Neilson, M.A., Ph.D., Instructor in Eng- 
lish, Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 
pp. 165. 25 cents. 

Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction. 

I. England in Milton's Youth. 
II. The Life of Milton. 
III. L' Allegro and II Penseroso. 



IV. Comus. 
V. Lycidas. 

VI. Milton's Puritanism. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Word Index. 



Life and Works: 

For what particular reason are 
the writings of Milton to be 
studied in connection with 
the history of his own times 

(p. 11)? 

Is there anything peculiar in 
the fact that the natural 
j)eriods into which his life is 
divided coincide with the 
periods of English history of 
the seventeenth century? 

What are the dates of the 
periods into which his life is 
divided? 

What were his chief works in 
each period? 

Write summaries of the life of 
Milton for each period, with 



particular attention to the 
first. 

What was Milton's concep- 
tion^^of the life of a poet (p. 
24)?" 

Did he" always live up to this 
ideal? 

What was the "Grand Tour" 
(p. 25)? 

Outline the"! religious contro- 
versies after the execution 
of Charles I. To which 
party did Milton belong (p. 
29)? 

What position did he hold with 
the Commonwealth (p. 30)? 

What was the theme of his 
most important prose writ- 
ings (p. 28)? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



65 



L'Allegro and II Penseroso : 

Who is supposed to have in- 
fluenced Milton in the com- 
position of these twin poems 
(p 34)? 

Make a comparison of, the two 
poems as to introduction 
and invocation, plan and 
structure, versification and 
use of words, dramatic back- 
ground and picture painting, 
and conclusion. 

What two different attitudes 
toward life are represented? 

Which poem do you think rep- 
resents Milton's genuine 
attitude? 

Give the rhyme schemes for 
the introductions and the 
main parts of both poems. 

Scan U Allegro, 11. 4, 7, 16, 
46, 48, 53, 98. 118; II Pense- 
roso, 11. 5, 9, 17, 49, 64, 81, 83. 

What is the effect of the short 
lines, as 11. 98, 118 (pp. 56, 57)? 

Work out in detail the plan 
and structure of both poems 
(see page 33). 

Visualize "with care the series 
of pictures in L'Allegro— the 
morning, the noon-day, and 
the evening scenes. Those 
in II Penseroso — the night 
and morning scenes. 

Why does the hero of L'Allegro 
invoke the lark and that of 
II Penseroso the nightingale? 

Why does the series of pictures 
in U Allegro begin^ with the 
morning and that in II 
Penseroso with the evening? 



How do you harmonize Mil- 
ton's Puritanism with his 
evident delight in the pleas- 
ures mentioned in 11. 33, 
34, 39, 40 (p. 54) or 11. 95 
ff. (p. 62)? (Seep. 47.) 

What can you say of the fig- 
ures in 11. 42, 43, 50 (p. 54); 
11. 63, 73 (p. 55)? Note the 
epithets on pp= 57 and 59. 

COMUS: 

What authors seem to have 
given Milton hints in the 
composition of Comus (p. 
41)? 

Describe the masque. In 
whose hands did it first take 
rank as literature (p. 37)? 

Taking Comus as an example, 
point out the characteristics 
of the masque (p. 38). 

How does Milton differ in pur- 
pose from the other writers 
of the'masque (p. 40)? 

What is the moral lesson he 
seeks to teach? 

Is this didacticism character- 
istic of Milton (p. 49)? 

Summarize the circumstances 
of the composition of Comus 
(p. 36). 

Collect all the references to 
the Earl of Bridgew^ater and 
his family that you can find 
(see p. 39). 

Outline with some fullness the 
plan of the poem, taking 
note of the digressions and 
the lyrics. 

For what purpose is the speech 



66 



teacher's manual 



of the Attendant Spirit on 
pp. 66-70? 

Is the genealogy of Comus (p. 
68) from classical authorities? 

To whom is the reference in 11. 
86 ff. (p. 69)? Are there any 
other references to the same 
person (p. 39)? 

Does 1. 15, p. 67, express Mil- 
ton's own poetic purpose? 

Compare the sentiment in 11. 
310-233, 373-475, 585-608, and 
663-665. 

Write a summary of the theme 
stated in these lines. Is it ,a 
Puritan conception? 

Is there anything inappropri- 
ate in calling in the aid of a 
mythological being (Sabrina) 
and in the boast of the Elder 
Brother in 1. 373? 

What can you say of the char- 
acter of the two brothers? 

What reasons or persuasions 
does Comus use, 11. 706-755 
(pp. 94-95)? 

What is the answer of the 
Lady (p. 96)? 

Do her arguments seem as con- 
vincing to you as they did to 
Comus (p. 97)? 

Characterize the conclusion. 

Note the versification of the 
main part of the poem, and 
scan lines 1-15, 730-738. 

In what metre is the speech of 
Comus on p. 70? 

Compare it with anj^ like metre 
that you can find in L' Alle- 
gro or II Penseroso. 

What is the rhyme scheme and 



scansion of the song on p. 75 

or of those on pp. 100, 101 

103 (see p. 43)? Of 11. 495-51; 

(see p. 85)? 
Lycidas : 
What were the circumstance: 

of the composition of thi; 

poem (p. 43)? 
Note the divisions of the poen 

(p. 45). 
Expand these and outline th« 

poem. 
Is the lament for King an ex 

pression of genuine feeling 

or is it only conventional? 
Is this lament the main theme 
Point out the pastoral ele 

ments in Lycidas (see p. 44) 
Collect examples of lapses f ron 

the pastoral form. 
With what does Milton re 

proach the Muses in 11. 04 fl. 
Do lines 70 ff. illustrate Mil 

ton's own spirit in taking uj 

the poetical career (p. 45)? 
Describe the procession ol 

mourners for Lycidas(pp. 110' 

111). Is it a mixed collection' 
Why is the attack on the cor 

ruption in the church (p. lllj 

appropriate? Is this an ele 

ment of Puritanism(see p. 47)' 
Contrast the conclusion v/itt 

the opening. 
What is the prevailing metre' 
Scan fifteen regular lines, 

twenty-five irregular ones. 
Pick out five lines of blanl 

verse. 
What effect does this irregulai 

metre produce? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



67 



REVOLT OF THE TARTARS, or Flight of the Kalmuck Khan and his 
PeoBle from the Russian Territories to the Frontiers of China. Thomas 
De Qulncey. Edited by Charles W. French, Principal of the Hyde Park 
High School, Chicago, 111. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 
pp. 127. 25 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Introduction. 

Biographical Sketch of De Quln- 
cey. 

Chronological Table. 

De Quincey's Characteristics as 
a Writer. 

Map illustrating the flight of 
the Tartar Tribe, showing 
supposed route. 

Life of De Quincey. 

Write a brief biography of De 
Quincey. (pp. 5-16). 

Were the eccentricities that 
marked him in later life 
displayed in his boyhood? 

Was his genius precocious? 
How was it exhibited? 

Has it been frequent with men 
who afterwards became 
great, to object to the routine 
duties of school? Have they 
been understood at the time 
any better than De Quincey 
was? 

Was De Quincey's learning 
general or specialized (p. 17)? 
Look out for passages in the 
Flight of a Tartar Tribe that 
illustrate the wide range of 
his knowledge. 

What effect on his writings did 
the constant use of opium 
have? 

With what great literary men 
was he associated (p. 12)? 

In what form did his writings 
appear (pp. 14, 18)? 



The Revolt of a Tartar Tribe. 
Bibliography of Biographical 
and Critical Works relating 
to De Quincey. 
Suggestive Questions. 
Text. 
Glossary 



What importance have recent 
literary critics attached to 
his writings (pp. 19, 20)? 

Flight of a Tartar Tribe: 

Explain the use of the word 

Tartar and relate the history 

^of the Tartars and of the 

Kalmucks previous to their 

migration (pp. 28 ff . ). 

What was their position in the 
Russian empire at this time? 

In what delicate position was 
the Khan placed (p. 39)? 

What was Russia's chief ob- 
jection to the migration? 

Summarize briefly the his- 
tory of the revolt — the prep- 
arations, the march, the end 
of the wandering. 

Note on the map on page 24 
the direction of the march 
and the various halts made. 
What was the exact date 
(p. 51)? 

Who governed Russia at this 
time? 

What advantage was it to the 



68 



teacher's manual 



Kalmucks that Russia was 
engaged in war with Turkey 
at this time? 

Who is the principal personage 
in the narrative? Describe 
his character. How did it 
appeal to De Quincey? What 
of the character of Ouba- 
cha? 

Why did the history of this 
obscure tribe of Tartars, not 
of such great historical im- 
portance, appeal so strongly 
to De Quincey? 

What did he think of its 
dramatic capabilities (p. 
36)? 

How does he treat it — dramat- 
ically or historically? 

Is it to be classed with his im- 
aginative or scientific writ- 
ings? 

What is the most unscientific 
thing in the method of treat- 
ment? 

Does he distort or over-empha- 
size facts to obtain the de- 
sired effects? Note as an 
example the concluding 
scene (pp. 101 ff.). Find 
other examples. Without a 
thorough knowledge of the 
historical facts, could you 
detect this? Notice De 
Quincey's own warning (p. 
35, 1. 4). 

Write your impressions of the 
essay. Have you been in- 
structed — do you remember 
the facts — or have you been 
entertained and amused? 



De Quincey's Style: 

(For a list of suggestive ques- 
tions see pp. 32-34. Some of 
them are repeated here with 
more particular reference.) 

Is this essay a good example of 
proportion in the whole 
composition? 

Are the more important facts 
treated of at great length or 
are the unimportant details 
given too great space? 

Are there passages thrown in 
merely for effect? 

How much space is devoted to 
the schemings and plottings 
of Zebec-Dorchi before the 
migration began? 

Is this an important part of the 
story? Is it interesting? 

What purpose does the intro- 
duction serve? 

Note De Quincey's use of 
words. Take pages 40, 41, 
76, 77, and 103 to, illustrate. 
Are his words simple or or- 
nate, short or long, of Latin 
or Saxon origin? Do you 
notice any words used in 
their primary meaning, dif- 
fering from the ordinary 
usage (note p. 76)? 

Have the second paragraph on 
page 41 rewritten in a more 
simple diction, substituting 
as far as possible short Saxon 
words for the longer words 
of classical origin, omitting 
everything that seems un- 
necessary, still taking care 
to creserve the meaning. 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



69 



Compare the result with any- 
other passage and by this 
comparison note the chief 
qualities of De Quincey's 
diction. What qualities in 
his style are thus destroyed? 

Classify the figures of speech 
used pp. 59-70. Are they ar- 
tistic or labored? Are they 
appropriate in an historical 
essay? 

How many words are there in 
the third sentence on p. 103 
and in the one on p. 57 begin- 
ning with 1. 23? Is this an 
average sentence length? 

Are the sentences loose or 
periodic? 

Try to break up into several 
shorter ones any one of his 
long sentences. What is the 
effect? 

Do the long sentences become 
involved in meaning, or are 
they always clear? 

Do the sentences run smoothly? 

Do you note any examples of 
the simple style (p. 38)? 

Note the Latin construction, 1. 
17, p. 49. Are his sentences 
often influenced by Latin 
constructions? Pick out as 
many as you can find. Was 
this a result of his classical 
training (p. 10)? 



In paragraph structure does 
he observe unity and coher- 
ence? 

Examine the long paragraph 
on p. 64 for analysis. Is 
there one dominant sen- 
tence, containing the main 
idea of the paragraph? If 
so, where is it placed? Is 
there an introductory sen- 
tence? Is there one at the 
end summing up the matter 
of the whole paragraph? 

How are the paragraphs con- 
nected — easily or abruptly? 
What of their length? 

Do you find any short para- 
graphs (pp. 74, 91)? 

How is the concluding episode 
treated? Is it an adequate 
summing up of the whole 
essay, or does it by one great 
effort present the dramatic 
ending so that your mind is 
taken from what has gone 
before? 

Write a comparison of the 
styles of De Quincey and 
Macaulay, paying particular 
attention' to their use of 
words, use of figures and 
illustrations, sentence struc- 
ture, paragraph structure, 
and the qualities of prose 
style in general. 



70 



teacheb's manual 



MARMION. Sir Walter Scott. Edited by William Vaughn Moody, A I 
Assistant Professor of English, the University of Chicago. Glossary ; 
Notes by Mary R. Willard, Instructor in English, High School, Jamesto 
(N. Y.). Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp.355. SOcer 



CONTENTS 



Introduction. 
Map. 

I. Life of Scott. 

II. Scott's Place in the Roman- 
tic Movement. 

For questions and suggestions 
on the life and works:of Scott 
and his connection with the 
Romantic Movement see The 
Lady of the Lake (p. 33 of 
this Manual). 

When was Marmion written? 

How much time was con- 
sumed in the writing of the 
poem? Was this Scott's usu- 
al method of work? 

How did the "hurried frank- 
ness of the composition" 
help his work (p. 46)? 

Construction of the Plot: 

What do you think of the de- 
vice of prefixing a verse-let- 
ter to each Canto? 

Compare this framework with 
that employed in Tlie Lay of 
the Last Minstrel. 

Which is the more formal? 
The more natural? 

Do these letters distract your 
attention from the narrative, 
or do they, by contrasting 
the pleasant scenes and 
reminiscences of Scott's own 
life with the less pleasing 
ones of the life of Marmion, 



III. Marmion. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Glossary. 

serve as good resting pla( 
for the mind? 

The letters should be studi 
in connection with th 
period of Scott's life spe 
at Ashestiel. Full explar 
tions are furnished in t^ 
Notes. • 

I. For what purpose is Ma 
mion made to stop at Nc 
ham Castle? Could the sto 
have gone on just as w( 
without it? Is it introduc( 
merely to give an opportu 
ity for the grand picture 
mediaeval pageantry? 

What effect on the mind doi 
the picture produce, as 
setting for the followic 
story? 

Describe Marmion's entranc 
into the castle (pp. 74 ff.). 

Note the ^time that it require 
to get him inside. 

Did you pay any attention t 
the first mention of D 
Wilton (p. 78)? 

Why was Marmion not able t 
"brook the harper's barbai 
ous lay"? 

What effect on Marmion ha 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



71 



Sir Hugh the Heron's in- 
quiry after his former page 
(p. 81)? 

Did you note the significance 
of this at the first reading? 

How does Sir Hugh inquire of 
Marm ion's mission? 

Is Scott sympathetic in his 
description of the Church- 
men (pp. 84 ff.)? 

Is there anytliing improbable 
in tlie meeting of Marmion 
and the Palmer at the same 
castle? 

Note the first description of 
the Palmer (p. 86). 

Is there anything to indicate 
that ^he is concealing his 
own identity (stanza 
XXVIII)? 

II. How is Marmion 's secret 
revealed in this Canto? What 
of the means employed? 

Is there any intimation as to 
who Clare is in stanza V (p. 
106)? 

Compare stanza XX (p. 117) 
with stanza XV, Canto I. 

Note'the contrast between the 
two culprits when they are 
led to trial, and the excellent 
contrast between the horror 
of the punishment and the 
beauty of the victim. 

How does this reveal the char- 
acter of Constance? 

Describe this' trial scene 

Note how Marmion 's history is 
unfolded in the speech of 
Constance. 

Why is the battle between 



Marmion and De Wilton de- 
scribed so fully (p. 122)? 

Study this Canto as an excel- 
lent picture of the power 
and pride of the mediaeval 
church. 

Note the fact that the "pres- 
ence of monks and nuns at 
Whitby in the reign of 
Henry VIII, is an anachron- 
ism. " Does this matter? 

HI. How does this Canto ad- 
vance the plot? 

Give your reasons for calling 
it episodic or incidental (p. 
50). 

Note the description of the Inn 
(p. 138). 

What significance is there in 
the Palmer's continued gaz- 
ing at Marmion? 

What efl;ect is produced on 
Marmion by the song of 
Fitz-Eustace? 

Compare 11. 11-15, stanza XIII 
(p. 144), with the end of 
Canto II. 

Is the explanation in stanza 
XV necessary? 

Why is the Host's Tale 'intro- 
duced? 

In what one of Scott's novels 
is the English king men- 
tioned on p. 153 a character? 

Notice the slight description 
of the midnight fight here. 
Where is it described? Where 
is it explained? 

IV. Is there any intimation as 
to who the Elfin Knight was 
in 11. 16 and 29 (p. 168)? 



72 



teacher's makual 



Why is the halt made at Crich- 
toun Castle? 

Note the description of it. 

How is Marmion persuaded to 
tell of' his midnight combat 
(p. 181)? Does the reader 
understand all of it? 

Does Marmion believe the 
Elfin Knight to be De Wil- 
ton? 

What does the description of 
the camping j)lace of the 
Scottish army add to the 
story? 

V. Note the description of 
King James in stanza IX (p. 
210). 

Do you have a better picture 
of him than you do of some 
of the more important char- 
acters in the plot? 

What is the justification of 
Lady Heron's Song (p. 
213)? 

Describe the quarrel between 
the king and Douglas. 

Note the transition from stanza 
XVII to stanza XVIII. 

Is the arrest of the Abbess 
of St. Hilda by the Scot- 
tish soldiers a natural 
event? 

Describe the interview of the 
Palmer and the Abbess (pp. 
223 ff.) 

Note the immediate change in 
the Palmer. 

How have we been prepared 
for it? 

Note the second transition (p. 
231). 



VI. In comparison with thf 
other Cantos, how do you 
consider this one as regard 
poetic value, dramatic situa- 
tion, and power of descrip 
tion. 

How is the identity of the 
Palmer revealed? 

Describe this dramatic situa 
tion. 

How does Scott fail in the 
handling of this scene (p. 
53)? 

In what other way could the 
history of De Wilton have 
been given? 

How is the supernatural ele- 
ment of the battle of the 
Elfin Knight explained? 

Why did not De Wilton kill 
Marmion (p. 259)? 

Compare his account of the 
battle with that of Marmion 
(pp. 182 ff.) 

Note the change of scene, pp. 
261, 263. 

Describe the parting of Doug- 
las and Marmion. 

When does Marmion first take 
note of the flight of the 
Palmer (p. 267)? 

How does the introduction of 
the battle of Flodden Field 
give the story a dramatic 
close? 

Note the apology for its inci- 
dental character (p. 288) ? 

Describe Marmion 's death. 
Why is the peasant made to 
occupy his grave, and he the 
peasant's? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



73 



Comment in General: 

Characterize Scott's method of 
description, using the inci- 
dent of Flodden Field in 
Canto VI as an example of 
a large descriptive passage 
and the description of Sir 
David Lindsay as an in- 
stance of a more restricted 
one. 

Compare these with like de- 
scriptions in Tlie Lay and in 
The Lady of the Lake. Are 
they vivid? 

Are they painted with a broad 



hand, or are they minutely 
drawn? 

"What is, in general, the point 
of view? 

Are there cases where it is 
changed? 

Compare the use of the super- 
natural in Marmion with 
that in The Lay and in The 
Lady of the Lake (see p. 55). 

Is concealed identity a favorite 
device with Scott? 

How many times does he em- 
ploy it in the three poems? 
Does he use it in his novels? 



THE PRINCESS, a Medley, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Edited by Charles 
Townsend Copeland, Lecturer on English Literatiu'e in Harvard Univer- 
sity, and Henry Milnor Rideout. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Com- 
pany, pp. 169. 25 cents. 



Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction. 

Tennyson. 

The Princess. 

Tennyson: 

When and where was Tenny- 
son born? 

What was his father's occupa- 
tion? 

What were the natural sur- 
roundings of his youth (pp. 
9-10)? 

What university did he attend? 

Who were some of his more 
important friends there? 

Did he take a degree? 

When did his first notable 
poetical work appear? 

What personal loss had a 



Text. 

Life of Tennyson; Chronolog- 

ICAIi TABLE. 

Versification. 
Notes. 

great effect on his poetical 
genius? 

What long j)oem ultimately 
resulted from this loss? 

To what position was Tenny- 
son appointed in 1850? 

Name and characterize briefly 
the most important of his 
longer poems (pp. 14-17). His 
dramas. 

What title did he receive late 
in life? 

When did he die? 

What is the substance of 
Saintsbury's estimate of 



74: 



teacher's manual 



Tennyson's position among 
the poets of his period 
(quoted on p. 18)? 

The Princess— in General: 

When was Tlie Princess pub- 
lished (p. 13)? 

What two works may have fur- 
nished Tennyson with hints 
for this poem (pp. 20-21)? 

What extent of borrowing 
seems probable? 

Summarize what Tennyson's 
son has to say about The 
Princess (pp. 27-28). 

State in outline the general 
plan of the poem, — the ma- 
chinery of its structure. Do 
you find it confusing? 

Why did Tennyson call the 
poem a Medley (p. 25 and 
conclusion of the poem)? 

What is the function of the 
child (p. 26)? Compare with 
Silas Marner. 

Is the final effect serious or 
burlesque? 

What apparent change do you 
note, as the poem progresses, 
in the poet's attitude to- 
wards woman? 

Point out the best examples 
you find of the characteristic 
qualities of Tennyson men- 
tioned on p. 29; namely: (1) 
"music ... in words and 
cadences"; (2) "truth and 
beauty of descriptions of 
nature"; (3) "sympathy , . . 
with movements of the 
time.'* 



The Princess — in Detail: 

Prologue. How early in thai 
poem is its principal themei 
hinted at (Prologue, 11. 32- 
33)? 

How much of the main plot is 
foreshadowed in the Pro- 
logue (p. 38, etc.)? 

How soon is its nature as a 
Medley foreshadowed (Pro- 
logue, 1. 17 ff . )? 

By what various contrasts are 
the characteristics of a Med- 
ley made prominent (1. 102, 
etc.)? 

Wliy is the account of scien- 
tific experiments given (p. 
35)? 

I. Explain what is meant by 
the "weird seizures." 

What is the purpose of intro- 
ducing them (p. 28)? 

Note every use made of them 
in the progress of the poem. 

What significance for the 
future has the seal described 
near the end of Part I? 

II. What interest does the 
Princess show in the Prince 
(1. 35)? 

Trace through the poem the 
steps in the growth of her 
interest. 

How soon is the child intro- 
duced? 

How is it made prominent? 

What scientific theory is given 
poetical setting in this part? 

How is Cyril's attitude toward 
Psyche indicated from the 
first? 



FOR THE LAKE HNQLISH CLASSICS 



75 



What reference seems to 
change Psyche's intention 
regarding her brother and 
his friends (p. 60)? 

What hints are given as to 
danger from Lady Blanche? 

III. Summarize in order the 
means which Cyril succes- 
sively tries to secure the 
silence of the Lady Blanche? 

What scientific practice is pro- 
tested against on p. 79? 

["V . How is the sex of the in- 
truders discovered by the 
Princess? 

What reason does the Lady 
Blanche assign for not tell- 

•^ ing about them? 

[s there any significance in the 
Princess's determination to 
keep Psyche's child (p. 95)? 

What justification do you find 
for the Princess's bitterly 
sarcastic speech (p. 101)? 

V. What request is there as to 
the Prince in the Princess's 
letter to her brother (p. 
120)? 

What important comment on 

the child? 
Note the rapidity and vigor of 

the account of the combat. 

Paraphrase it. 

VI. Is the Princess's battle 
song in harmony with her 
character as generally pre- 
sented? 

Point out the silent part the 
child plays in the Princess's 
work of mercy after the 
combat (11. 58, 75, etc.)- 



What effect has the sight of 
the Prince's father on the 
Princess? 

What incident of great dram- 
atic power follows Psyche's 
sight of her child? 

Why are so many appeals nec- 
essary before the Princess 
forgives Psyche? 

VII. Is there in this part any 
element of the burlesque? 

Is Tennyson expressing his 
own sincere opinion? 

Conclusion. Has the conclu- 
sion a bearing on the story, 
either as explanation or in 
any other capacity? 

The Songs. What does the 
song at the beginning of 
Part II indicate as to the 
child as a reconciling influ- 
ence? 

What is the purpose of the 
lullaby at the beginning of 
Part III? 

What bearing has the "bugle 
song" (beginning of Part IV) 
on the main part of the 
13oem? 

What bearing has the song 
"Tears, Idle Tears"? The 
"Swallow Song"? 

Who is it whose "voice is 
heard thro' rolling dr^m[ls" 
(Interlude, p. 103)? 

Show wherein the song at the 
beginning of Part VI inten- 
sifies the effect of the pre- 
vious songs. 

What is the cumulative mean- 
ing of the songs in VII? 



re 



teacher's manual 



Characterization : 

Do you find an effort to secure 
very definite characteriza- 
tion? 

In what cases is it most suc- 
cessful? 

Write sketches of the Prince 
and the Princess, their fa- 
thers, the.Ladies Blanche and 
Psyche, Cyril, Florian, Arac, 
and Melissa. 

Point out some of the best at- 
tempts to make the dialogue 
suit the character speaking. 

Is the Prince a weak character? 

Where does he appear strong- 
est? 

Does his character develop? If 
so, point out the stages in its 
development. 



Versification and Style: 

What is the metrical form of 
this poem? 

Point out several groups of 
lines w^hich seem to justify 
the statement of Tennyson 
quoted at the bottom of 
p. 28. 

Find good examples of each of 
the variations in metre de- 
scribed on pp. 159-60. ■ 

What can you say as to the 
amount of figurative lan- 
guage in the poem? 

Note the frequency of figures 
from the sea. 

Pick out a number of the 
most effective figures you 
find. Any that do not seem 
to you effective. 



MACBETH William Shakspere. With Notes and a Glossary by John 
Henry Boynton, Ph.D., Late Instructor in English in Syracuse Univer- 
sity, and an Inti'oduction by William Allan Neilson, M.A., Ph.D., Har- 
vard College. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 176. 25 ceutS: 



Preface. 

Contents. 
Introduction. 

I Shakspere and the Eliza- 
bethan Drama. 
II. Date of Macbeth. 
III. Sources. 



IV. Interpolations. 
V. The Witches. 
Suggestions to Teachers. 
Bibliography. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Glossary. 



(The questions on Shakspere 
and the Elizabethan Drama, 
given above with Jaliufi 
Caesar, will suffice for Mac- 
beth, since they are based on 
practically the same Intro- 
duction.) 



Macbeth — General Ques- 
tions: 

When was Macbeth first print- 
ed? 

What is the probable date of 
its first production (p. 19)? 

What was Shakspere's source 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



lit 



for his plot (p. 20)? Did he 
follow it closely? Was this 
source historically accurate? 

Why should Shakspere have 
combined the accounts of 
two different murders from 
Holinshed (pp. 21 ff.)? 

Point out the most notable in- 
cidents from Holinshed you 
find (pp. 21-30) which Shak- 
spere did not use, and try to 
find reasons for his failure 
to use them. 

Enumerate the most promi- 
nent incidents or speeches in 
the play for which you do 
not find a source in Holins- 
hed. 

Compare the time of the play 
with that indicated in the 
history. 

Wliat parts of the play are re- 
jected by some editors (pp. 
31-34)? 

Summarize reasons why the 
speeches of Hecate are of 
very doubtful authenticity 
(pp. 32-33). 

What is the double function of 
the "weird sisters" (pp. 35- 
36)? 

Point out ways in which Shak- 
spere has made their influ- 
ence in the play greater than 
it is shown to be in ITolins- 
lied. 

The Plot — in Particular: 
As to I, i, note questions on j). 

154. 
State briefly and clearly the 



exact situation presented in 

I, ii. 
In how many ways are we 

interested in Macbeth before 

he appears in person? 
Can you account in any way 

for the discrepancies between 

the references to the thane of 

Cawdor in I, ii, 52, etc., and 

I, iii, 72, etc. (p. 32)? 

Why should an account of 
Cawdor' s death be given at 
the beginning of I, iv? 

What indications of hesitation 
are there on Macbeth's part 
in I, V? 

What dramatic purpose can 
there be in the bit of descrip- 
tion with which I, vi, opens? 
In the manner of Lady Mac- 
beth toward the king? 

What is the effect of the con- 
versation of Macbeth and 
Banquo at the ^beginning of 

II, i? 

Do you think Macbeth's solil- 
oquy (p. 73) followed imme- 
diately after the dejiarture of 
the servant? 

Is it more effective not to have 
the murder of Duncan take 
place before our eyes? Why? 

What is the purpose of the 
references to out-door 
sounds, — the owls, the crick- 
ets, and the knocking? Of 
the porter's humorous speech 
in II, iii? Is this speech nat- 
ural? 

What is the effect of Lennox's 
reference (II,.iii, 42, etc. ) to 



78 



TEACHER'S MANUAL 



the "unruliness" of the 
night? 

Is there any significance in 
making Macduff the dis- 
coverer of the murder? 

Explain the conversation of 
Malcohn and Donalbain near 
the end of II, iii. 

What is accomplished for the 
plot in II, iv? 

About how long an interval 
must be supposed between 
Acts II and III? 

Point out all indications you 
find as to the progress of 
time during the play. 

What inconsistencies do you 
find? 

Have we had any hints, before 
Banquo's speech at the begin- 
ning of III, i, that he suspects 
Macbeth? 

Point out a striking example 
(on p. 89, for instance) of 
"dramatic irony" — in which 
the words spoken are true in 
some sense which either the 
speaker or the hearer or both 
do not dream of. Note ex- 
amples elsewhere in the 
play. 

In III, iii, does the third mur- 
derer seem to know more 
about Banquo's plans and 
habits than the others? 

Fleance does not afterwards 
appear in the play; why, 
then, should Shakspere have 
him escape? 

Note question on III, iv, 46 (p. 
163). 



Why should Banquo's ghosl 
appear more than once? 

How do you imagine the guestf 
took* Macbeth's action ir 
III, iv? ' 

Did they see the ghost? 

How well did Lady Macbett 
understand her husband'j 
actions? 

Why should, Macbeth go to see 
the weird sisters again? 

What purpose for the plot doe,« 
III, vi, serve? See question 
near top of p. 164. 

See questions in notes on IV, 
i, 68. 

What is the dramatic purpose 
of having Macbeth some- 
what encouraged by the 
ironical prophecies of IV, i? 

Do you find IV, ii and iii, less 
interesting than other parts 
of the play? If so, why? 

Could they be wholly or partly 
omitted? 

Enumerate any events or inci- 
dents you find in these scenes 
which are necessary to the 
later development of the 
play, either as explanation 
or preparation. 

Is the "sleep-walking scene" 
more effective acted or read? 
Why? 

Write an orderly account of 
the events of Act V. 

Explain the way in which the 
prophecies of tlie weird sis- 
ters, taken by Macbeth to be 
encouraging, are fulfilled. 

Is there any reason why Mac- 



rOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



79 



beth should not be killed on 
the stage'?^ 
If there is, how does it apply to 
the bringing in of his head? 

The Plot— in General: 

What is the exciting force, — 
the incident with which the 
main action of the play be- 
gins? 

Discuss the question whether 
Macbeth already had designs 
on the throne before the play 
begins. 

With what specific event does 
the resolution of the play — 
the fall of Macbeth— begin? 

Shov/ that (in spite of hints by 
way of preparation for his 
fall) he is uniformly success- 
ful before this, and (in spite 
of some delusive encourage- 
ment) uniformly unsuccess- 
ful after it. 

It has been said that there are 
three kinds of reaction 
against Macbeth : spiritual 
reaction within his own soul ; 
political reaction ; and super- 
natural reaction. Give spe- 
cific examples of each (III, 
iv; V, i; III, vi; IV, i). 

Do you find any lack of unity 
in this play? 

The Characters: 

In how many ways in Act I is 

Macbeth shown to be worthy 

of being king? 
See note (p. 15G) on I, iii, 50, 60. 
Summarize the points of con- 



trast between Macbeth and 
Banquo, brought out in I, iii. 

Compare Banquo 's character 
according to Holinshed (p. 
26-27) with his character ac- 
cording to Shakspere. Why 
should Shakspere have 
changed it as he did? 

Explain Lady Macbeth's esti- 
mate of her husband in I, v. 
Enumerate ways in which it 
is justified later on inthe play. 

How do you account for such 
sudden zeal on her part as 
this scene shows? 

What motive or motives^ cause 
Macbeth's hesitation in I, v 
and vii? 

What are Lady Macbeth's mo- 
tives in urging him on? 

Compare her motive as as- 
signed by Holinshed (p. 27) 
with the motives you find in 
Shakspere. 

Does mere physical fear ac- 
count for Macbeth's actions 
and hallucinations in II, i 
and ii? 

How can you explain Lady 
Macbeth's greater courage? 
Is it because of greater 
wickedness? 

Is any mitigating touch intro- 
duced here which in any way 
serves as partial preparation 
for V, i? 

Are there any reasons for 
thinking her swoon at II, iii, 
106, is not feigned? 

Characterize Lady Macbeth as 
she appears in III, ii and iii. 



80 



teacher's manual 



Does she show the power 

evinced on the night of the 

murder? 
Does she justify the epithet 

"fiend-like queen," applied 

to her in V, viii, 69? 
How do you account for the 

change in her? 
In what ways does she win our 

sympathy? 
How do you account for Mac- 

beth's action toward the 

servant in V, iii? 
What is his feeling toward 

Lady Macbeth? Why does he 

not show more sorrow when 

he hears of her death in 

V, V? 
Write comprehensive character 

sketches of Macbeth and 

Lady Macbeth; of Macdutf 

and Banquo. 

Style and Versification: 
What is the regular metre of 
the play? 



Where do you notice use of 
rhyme? 

What is the metre of the 
speeches of the weird sisters? 

Can you tell why it is effect- 
ive? 

In what places do you find 
prose used? Why? 

What can you say as to the 
condensation of this play? 

Select several elliptical pas- 
sages and expand them so as 
to express the meaning 
clearly and simply. 

Do you find the style here 
highly figurative? 

Pick out two or three of the 
most interesting figures you 
find and paraphrase them, 
noting the loss in force. 

Do you find the figures pre- 
dominatingly from the world 
of external nature or from 
human life? 

Is their significance local and 
temporary, or universal? 



EDMUND BURKE'S SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA, 
1775. Edited by Joseph Villier.s Denney, Professor in Ohio State Univer- 
sity. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp.159. 25 cents. 

CONTENTS 

A Study of the LoGicAii Struc- 
ture OF THE Speech on Con- 
ciliation. 



Preface. 
Introduction. 

Edmund Burke. 

A Brief Bibliography. 
Text. 
Questions on the Literary and 

RHETORicAii Qualities of the 

Speech on Conciliation. 

Life and Works op Burke: 
When and where was Burke 



Notes. 
Index 



born? Where was he edu- 
cated? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



81 



What was his university 

record (p. 11)? 
For what purpose and when 

did he go to London? 
What was his record there in 

his studies? 
What were his first literary 

works (p. 12)? 
What annual publication was 
he associated with for many 
years? 
Who were the most important 
of his literary associates 
(p. 13)? 
When was he first elected to 
parliament (p. 13), and how 
long did he remain in parlia- 
ment (p. 19)? 
I\lake a list of ^the various po- 
litical positions he held dur- 
ing his life besides his mem- 
bership in parliament. Was 
he ever in the cabinet? 
Why: (p. 16)? 
What three great subjects was 
Burke particularly inter- 
ested in during his political 
career (p. 17)? 
What was his general attitude 
toward the policies of George 
III (p. 14)? 
Summarize Burke's work on 
behalf of the American colo- 
nies, naming three important 
speeches and one letter 
which he wrote on the ques- 
tion (pp. 13-15). 
During what years was Burke 
agitating the Indian ques- 
tion? Name his most impor- 
tant speech on this subject? 



What was his attitude toward 
the French Revolution (p. 
18)? His most important 
work on this subject? 

What was the name and the 
nature of his last .work (p. 
19)? 

When did he die? 

What is the common estimate 
of Burke as an orator and 
political philosopher (pp. 10, 
20, 22, etc.)? 

The Speech on Conciliation 
— IN General: 

When was this speech deliv- 
ered? 

What was the immediate oc- 
casion, or excuse, for it? 

Prepare an outline of the im- 
portant events leading up to 
this speech. 

Name and describe briefly the 
measures which Burke 
wished to have repealed. 

What was the effect of his 
speech? 

Note the questions on the 
literary and rhetorical quali- 
ties of the speech on pp. 127- 
31. 

Complete the^ outline of the 
logical structure of the 
speech begun on pp. 132-37. 

In Particular: 

What do you find to be the 
purpose of Burke's introduc- 
tion? Do you notice any de- 
vices to indicate that the 
speech was unprepared 
(par. 1)? 



82 



teacher's manual 



Was Burke really supersti- 
tious? 

What is the effect of the hesi- 
tation for a proper word at 
the end of par. 4? Of the 
familiar colloquial expres- 
sions in par. 5? 

What subtle irony do you find 
in par. 7? Point out other 
examples of the same quality 
later on. 

What great governmental 
principle is at the bottom of 
par. 10? 

How has the House admitted 
what Burke, in par. 12, says 
it has admitted? 

Why is the population of the 
colonies an argument in 
favor of conciliation (pp. 
34-35)? The commerce? 

What is the substance of 
Burke's evidence regarding 
commerce? 

Is par. 25 in any sense a digres- 
sion? 

What, precisely, is its relation 
to the course of the argu- 
ment? 

Why should Burke turn again 
to specific figures in par. 26? 

What is the argumentative 
effect of par. 28? 

What literary qualities do you 
find in par. 30? 

What universal political prin- 
ciples are stated in pars. 
31-34? 

What is the function, as a 
paragraph, of par. 36? Find 
similar examples farther on. 



Why do the references to the 
history of England in par. 3^ 
apply siDecifically to the 
American colonies? 

In what ways is force secured 
in par. 43? 

What is the purpose, as a para- 
graph, of par. 44? Show how 
it differs from par. 36. Find 
similar examples farther on. 

Can you think of any other' 
feasible ways of proceeding 
besides those mentioned by 
Burke in par. 47? 

Why should "par. 51 be set off 
as a paragraph? 

How had England shown the 
disposition to impoverish the 
colonies mentioned in par. 
52? 

What powerful bits of sarcasm 
do you find in pars. 53, 56, 57? 

State in substance the sound 
political wisdom underlying 
pars. 59 and 60. 

What does Burke gain by leav- 
ing out of consideration the 
right of taxation (par. 66)? 
To what feeling is the appeal 
of this paragraph? 

Explain in your own words the 
inconsistency which Burke 
points out in pars. 71-73. 

Explain all historical refer- 
ences of importance in pars. 
79-87. 

Summarize the points of sim- 
ilarity between England's 
treatment of Wales and of the 
American colonies, as given 
in par. 81. 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



83 



Why should Burke, in par. 85, 
quote the exact language 
of the people of Chester? 

Do the questions in par. 86 in- 
dicate anything as to the 
course of procedure adopted 
by parliament with relation 
to American petitions? 

Is par, 87 a unit? 

Explain carefully the actual 
concession which Burke pro- 
poses in par. 91. 

What is the effect of par. 92, 
followed by resolutions em- 
bodying mere matters of 
fact, couched in the lan- 
guage of previous parlia- 
ments? 

Name all the literary effects 
you find prominent in par. 95. 

What historical events were 
the basis for the resolution 
of 1748 (par. 101)? That of 
1756? 

Why should Burke precede his 
sixth resolution by the bit 
of argument contained in 
par. 106? 

Which of the acts mentioned 
for repeal in par. 109 does 
Burke discuss specifically in 



the following paragraphs? 
Can you tell why he does not 
discuss all? 

Explain the resolutions as to 
courts (pars. 114-15). 

What (is the essential point of 
par. 120? 

Do you think Burke really al- 
most forgot his purpose to 
comment on the [>lan of Lord 
North, as referred to in par. 
123? 

Does he, however, give suflB- 
cient attention to it? 

State clearly all his points 
against it. 

How would Lord North's plan 
break the union of the colo- 
nies (par. 131)? 

Note the effective antithesis of 
par. 132. 

Explain the figure at the end 
of par. 133. 

What is the nature and pur- 
pose of Burke's concluding 
appeal? 

Is it necessary to the argu- 
ment? 

Matters of style and plan are 
sufficiently discussed in 
questions on pp. 127-31. 



84 



teacher's manual 



MILTON'S PARADISE LOST. Books I and II. Edited by Frank Edgai 
Farley, Ph.D., Instructor in English, Syracuse University. Chicago- 
Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 160. 25 cents. 

IV. The Subject Matter of Para- 
dise Lost. 

V. Milton's English. 

VI. Milton's Verse. 
Milton's Preface on "The 

Verse." 
Text and Notes. 
Glossary. 



genius preco- 



remain of his 



Preface. 

Contents. 

Introduction. 

I- John Milton. 
II. Milton's Works in the Order 

of Publication. 
III. The Genesis of Paradise 
Lost. 

Life of Milton 

Relate the facts of Milton's 

life (p. 13-32). 
Was Milton's 

cious? 
What poems 

early years? 
What poems were written dur- 
ing his stay at Horton? 
How do these differ in general 

tone from the poems of his 

later years? What effected 

this change? 
How was Milton received in 

Italy during his travels there? 
How was he employed from 

the time of his return from 

Italy until the Restoration? 
What is the nature of his prose 

writings? 
How did he spend his last 

days? 
Was his domestic life pleasant? 
What is said of his personal 

characteristics (p. 21)? 
For other questions on Milton's 

life and works, see 3Iilton\s 

Minor Poems (p. 64 of this 

Manual). 

Genesis of Paradise Lost: 
What was the actual time 



spent in the composition of 
this fjoem (p. 34)? 

Show that it could have been 
the result of none but a long 
and matured life. 

How many years were spent in 
developing the idea and in 
gathering literary materials? 

Were the circumstances of 
Milton's life such as to fit 
him for this undertaking? 

What are the chief external 
evidences of the early con- 
ception in Milton's mind of 
such a poem as Paradise 
Lost? 

What is the earliest evidence 
of his first conception of a 
great epic (p. 26)? 

Give an account of the slow 
development of this idea and 
its final consummation in 
the publication of Paradise 
Lost (pp. 27-37)? 

Paradise Lost: 

Does the opening seem to be a 
conventional invocation, or 
is it a sincere appeal (p. 4 )? 

How does Milton's invocation 
differ from Vergil's (two- 
fold)? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



85 



Is Milton's boast in 1. 16, 
strictly speaking, true? 

Are there any other instances 
in these two books of the 
author's speaking in his own 
person? 

Did Milton accept the Coperni- 
can theory of astronomy? 

Write a clear statement of his 
conception of the Universe 
(p. 44). 

Where is the scene of the first 
two Books of Paradise 
Lost? 

Where was Hell? When and 
for what purpose was it 
created? What kind of a 
place does Milton conceive 
it to be (pp. 32, 79, and 
88)? 

Is the whole region clearly de- 
scribed? 

Why is the dark and wide con- 
tinent frozen (p. 133)? Com- 
pare II, 575-595 (pp. 133-34) 
with II, 898-906 (p. 145). 

Look up "humor" in dictionary 
for old medical significance ; 
and compare with the pas- 
sages from Paradise Lost, 
Chaucer, Prologue, 419-421: 

"He knew the cause of eve- 
rich maladye, 

Were it of hoot or cold, or 
moiste, or drye, 

And where engendred, and 
of what humour." 

Where was the World placed in 

the Universe? 
How connected with Hell? 

How with Heaven? 



How were the Gates of Hell 

guarded? 

Describe Satan's conflict with 
the Shapes guarding them. 

Describe the events] that^ had 
happened before the opening 
of the poem. What device is 
used to introduce them to 
the reader (pp.49 ff.)? 

Summarize in detail the action 
of Book I, of Book 11, and 
in a word or two that of 
each of the following Books 
(pp. 49-54). 

How far is the plot advanced 
by the portion of Paradise 
Lost given here? 

What is the main theme of 
these two Books (p. 55)? 
Who are the principal char- 
acters? 

Are we concerned here with 
great actions, or rather with 
the calm after great actions 
have taken place? 

Where are found the intima- 
tions or echoes of the recent 
battle in Heaven? 

What is the proportion of ac- 
tion and of speeches in Book 
I? In Book II? 

Analyze the speech of Satan 
on p. 82 ; compare it with the 
other speeches of Satan and 
state the characteristic qual- 
ities. 

Summarize the speech of 
Beelzebub on p. 82. 

Do you think that Milton's 
poetry reaches its grandest 
heights in these speeches? 



86 



teacher's manual 



What does Satan advise in his 
first speech before his assem- 
bled followers in Pandemo- 
nium? 

What plans are suggested? 

What rumor formerly heard in 
Heaven causes them to 
choose as they do? 

Note the recital of the heathen 
deities on pp. 92 ff . Do you 
think this is a blemish on 
the poem? 

Does the description of Satan 
on p. 88 give you a clear con- 
ception of his appearance? 

Describe Mammon (p. 103). 

Write a description of i the 
building of Pandemonium. 

Are Milton's descriptions vis- 
ualized?^ 

Did his conceptions ever be- 
come so great that the de- 
scriptions are indistinct? 

Is it easy at a glance to com- 
prehend the greatness of the 
actions and of the scenes 
that he describes? 

Milton's Poetical Style: 

What can you say of the syntax 
of Satan's speech on p. 80? Is 
this a fair sample of Milton's 
syntax? 

Collect examples of his use of 
faulty syntax. 

Select at least twenty - five 
words or phrases, other than 
those cited on p. 57, used by 
Milton with a different sig- 
nificance from the present 
usage. 



Note the use of the nominative 
absolute, v. 141, (p. 83). 

Is this imitation of the Latin 
constructions frequent vvdth 
Milton? How many exam- 
ples do you find on p. 88? 
On p. 93? 

How is this partiality for Latin 
constructions accounted for 
(p.59j? 

What is the form of the geni- 
tive singular neuter of the 
personal pronoun of the third 
person (p. 04)? 

Note Milton's use of similes. 

Are they long or short? 

Are they always completed? 

How many are there on p. 
89? 

What are the sources of his 
similes? 

Is there any significance in his 
mentioning Italy (p. 89)? 

What do you think of what 
Masson says (p. 33) of Mil- 
ton's knowledge of the Bible? 

What is the metre of Paradise 
Lost (p. 65)? 

Scan twenty normal lines. 

What are the most common 
variations from the normal? 

Scan two lines illustrating 
each variation. 

Compare the proportion of nor- 
mal lines on any page with 
the same number from 

C017lllS. 

Select words accented by Mil- 
ton on a different syllable 
from the one on which we 
now place the accent. 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



87 



Pick out examples of elision. 

When does it occur? 

Count the number of run on 
lines and the number of stop 
lines on p. 119 and on the 
two succeeding pages. 



Is the metrical unit the line or 

the stanza? 
In what way does the verse 

illustrate the thought in 11. 

200 ff. (p. 85)? Find other 

examples of this. 



POEMS AND TALES. Edgar Allan Poe. Selected and edited by Alphonso 
G. Newcomer, Associate Professor of English in the Leland Stanford 
Junior University. Chicago : Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 323. 
30 cents. 



Poe's Life: 

When and where was he born? 

What can you say as to his 
parents? 

By whom and in what circum- 
stances was he brought up 
(p. 9)? 

Where, successively, was he 
educated? What was his 
record in the higher institu- 
tions which he attended? 

What became his occupation 
after he left West Point (p. 
10)? 

What had been his first publi- 
cation (p. 10)? At what age? 

What was his first conspicuous 
success in literature (p. 11)? 
When did it come? 

When did Poe marry, and 
whom (p. 11)? What can you 
say of his married life? 
When did his wife die? What 
was the effect of her death 
on Poe (pp. 12-13)? 

Name some of the most impor- 
tant newspapers and maga- 



zines with which Poe was 
connected (pp. 11-12). Some 
of his literary associates. 

What habits interfered with 
his success (p. 12)? Name 
some other great authors 
who have been similarly 
handicapped. Did any one 
of them resemble Poe, either 
personally or in his work? 

Name Poe's most important 
publications and give their 
dates (p. 12). 

When, where, and in what cir- 
cumstances did he die? 

What were his principal moral 
defects (p. 14)? 

Write a character sketch of 
Poe, judging chiefly from 
the works read. 

Poe's Works— General Com- 
ment: 

What in general is the value 
of Poe's literary criticism 
(pp. 15-16)? Who were some 
of the famous men whom he 
early recognized as geniuses? 



88 



teachbk's man^ual 



What may be said as to the 
essential originality of Poe's 
Tales (p. 17)? 

Describe the general charac- 
teristics of the analytical 
tales (p. 18). Which of those 
in this volume are analytical? 

Name some famous authors 
who have been influenced by 
Poe's analytical tales (pp. 
18-19). 

What criticism is made of the 
allegorical tales (pp. 19-20)? 
Are there any of them in 
this book? 

In what third class of tales has 
Poe risen probably to his 
greatest height (p. 21)? 

What deficiencies of the tales 
are mentioned (pp. 21-22)? 
Illustrate each by specific 
reference. 

For what lack is Poe's poetry 
sometimes criticised (p. 23)? 
Illustrate. 

What important poetical qual- 
ities does it have in high de- 
gree (pp. 23-24)? Illustrate 
these as well as you can 
from the poems in this vol- 
ume. 

What, on the whole, is Poe's 
position in American litera- 
ture (p. 27)? 

The Poems: 

Which of the poems in this 
volume do you like the best? 
Why? 

''To Helen"— What differences 
in rhyme and rhythm do you 



find between the different 
stanzas? Is the poem better 
as corrected than as given 
on p. 299? Why? 

'Israfel"— Why should this be 
called "the most lyrical" of 
Poe's poems? 

•The City in the Sea"— Point 
out some of the "epithets" 
here that are most "striking 
in their originality and imag- 
inative power" (p. 300). 

'The Raven"— What is the 
substance of Poe's account 
of the composition of this 
poem (p. 301)? Point out 
resemblances between "The 
Raven" and "The Ancient 
Mariner. " What other poems 
may have influenced Poe in 
the composition of "The 
Raven" (pp. 301-2)? Point out 
the most effective examples 
you find of the following 
devices: (a) alliteration, (b) 
repetition, (c) internal 
rhyme. What do you think 
of the rhymes within the 
last two lines on p. 39? 

■'Ulalume" — What is the effect 
of the strange proper names? 
Point out some of the most 
striking examples of the 
adaptation of sense to sound. 

"Annabel Lee" — What varia- 
tions are there here in the 
stanzaic structure? What 
device do they make possi- 
ble? Do you find any un- 
musical lines? Any unmu- 
sical words, even? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGILISH CLASSICS 



89 



"The Bells"— Point out a few 
of the most striking and 
obvious onomatapoetic words 
and lines in each stanza. 

The Tales: 

Which of the tales in this vol- 
ume do you like best? Why? 
Which made the strongest 
impression on you? 

Do you find any of these tales 
which does not present one 
clearly d_efined central idea, 
such as Poe's statement of 
principles for the short story 
(quoted in part on p. 311) de- 
mands? State in short, clear, 
single sentences the central 
ideas of five of the stories in 
this volume. 

If you find any of these stories 
in which there is matter not 
used clearly in the develop- 
ment of the central idea, 
criticise them specifically in 
this respect. 

What can you say as to the 
variety, in tone and subject 
matter, of these stories? 

In what general ways do you 
find these tales realistic? 
Which are most realistic? 
Why? 

Comment on Poe's choice of 
titles for his stories. Do you 
find any title that is not 
appropriate? Any inappro- 
priate introductory quota- 
tion? 

What poetical devices do you 
find in these stories? In 



which are they most nu- 
merous? Are they appropri- 
ate? 

How many of these tales are 
told in the first person? 
What is the effect of the 
first person? 

Discuss the extent and natural- 
ness of Poe's use of conver- 
sation. In what stories does 
he use it most? Can you 
suggest reasons whj^? 

In his Life of Poe, Professor 
Woodberry, commenting on 
the early tale "Berenice," 
makes the following sum- 
mary^ of common character- 
istics of the Tales of Poe: 
"In it Poe's hero first comes 
upon the stage, a man struck 
with some secret disease, 
given to the use of drugs 
and to musing over old books 
in an antiquated and gloomy 
chamber, and reserved for a 
horrible experience. In it, 
too, are such themes of evil 
fascination for his mind as 
the epileptic patient and the 
premature burial ; such 
marks of his handling as the 
cousinship of the principal 
actors, the description of 
morbid physical changes, the 
minute analysis of sensa- 
tions, the half-superstitious 
reference to metempsy- 
chosis, and the vivid analy- 
sis of the effects of drugs- 
and such traits of literary 
style as the absence of con- 



90 



teacher's manual 



versation, the theatrically 
elaborated scene of the 
action, the speed of the nar- 
rative with its sudden and 
yet carefully prepared catas- 
trophe." Find from the 
stories read all the good ex- 
amples of these characteris- 
tics that you can. 

"The Assignation" — How is 
the setting of the first few 
pages made appropriate to 
the events that happen? 
What is the purpose and 
effect of all the luxurious 
details farther on? What 
relations has the poem (p. 73) 
to the story? Why is the 
"entire and terrible truth," 
referred to at the end of the 
story, only hinted at? Wliat 
is it? See questions on p. 306. 

*'Ligeia" — What is the effect 
of the vagueness and uncer- 
tainty with which the story 
begins? How soon is indica- 
tion given that the story is 
to be tragic? That super- 
naturalism is to be inv^olved? 
Why is Ligeia made a learned 
woman? Why is slie given 
the "intensity" referred to 
on p. 84? What purpose does 
the inserted poem (pp. 88-89) 
serve? Why does the hero 
repair to so wild and desolate 
a place as the abbey de- 
scribed on pp. 90 ff . ? Where 
do we get the first hints of 
the presence of the spirit of 
Ligeia? Trace the steps lead- 



ing to the /ilimax. Note 
questions on p. 307. 

'The Fall of the House of 
Usher" — Note questions and 
suggestions on pp. 308-11. 
How many times is the 
"tarn" referred to? What is 
the cumulative effect of these 
references? In what ways is 
the interior of the house 
made to reflect the character 
of its occupants? What does 
the picture (p. 116) symbol- 
ize? What is the allegorical 
signification of the inserted 
poem (pp. 117-19)? When do 
we first get hints that the 
lady Madeline may not be 
really dead? To what does 
Usher's question on p. 125 
refer? What effect has the 
storm in making the events 
of the latter part of tlie story 
seem more natural? What 
other effects has it? 

'A Descent into the Mael- 
strom" — What advantage 
has the abrupt beginning of 
this story? Why is the whirl- 
pool described in such detail 
before the real story begins? 
What is the purpose of the 
more scientific details on pp. 
139-40? Does the planning 
and reasoning of the hero 
while in the maelstrom seem 
to you natural? How does 
the author try to make it 
seem natural? See questions 
on p. 312. 

'Eleanora" — Point out what- 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



91 



ever likenesses you find be- 
tween this tale and "Ligeia" ; 
the most noteworthy points 
of difference. What specific 
suggestions are there in tliis 
story of Poe's own married 
life? Point out some exam- 
ples of repetition resembling 
that to be found in Poe's 
poetry; of alliteration; of 
rhythm. Why was the hero 
released from his vow to 
Eleanora? 

'The Oval Portrait"— What is 
the allegorical meaning? 
Compare Hawthorne's 
"Birthmark"and "The Artist 
of the Beautiful." 

'The Masque of the Red 
Death"— What is the alle- 
gorical meaning? Do you 
find any particular signifi- 
cance attached to any of the 
colors except those of the 
seventh chamber? What is 
the purpose of the others? 
Why is this story not in the 
first person? Compare Haw- 
thorne's "Lady Eleanore's 
Mantle." 

'The Pit and the Pendulum"— 
Enumerate the different 
kinds of cruelty practiced on 
the hero. Are they arranged 
in climactic order? What 



can you say as to the realism 
of the tale? Trace tlie in- 
creasing definiteness of the 
hints as to the place of the 
story. 

"The Gold Bug"— Point out 
any unnatural touches you 
find here in the conversation ; 
any poor dialect. Enumer- 
ate the most important 
points in the story that you 
don't understand till the ex- 
planation is given in the lat- 
ter part. Are you ever too 
much confused? Do you 
think Legrand's interest in 
the drawing on the parch- 
ment (pp. 244-45) is sufficient- 
ly accounted for? Is the latter 
part of the story as interest- 
ing as the first part? Which 
part do you think Poe took 
most interest in? Is the end- 
ing strong, emphatic? Com- 
pare with "The Gold Bug," 
"The Money Diggers," in 
Irving 's Tales of a Travel- 
ler. 

"The Purloined Letter"— Is all 
of Dupin's talk about mathe- 
matics (pp. 286 ff . ) sufficiently 
justified? Do you find the 
conversation here natural? 
Does the display of learning 
seem appropriate? 



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teacher's manual 



TWICE TOLD TALES. Nathaniel Hawthorne. Edited by Robert Herrick, 
A.B., Assistant Professor of English, the University of Chicago, and 
Robert Walter Bruere, Associate in English, the University of Chicago. 
Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, pp. 542. 40 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Preface. 
Contents. 

Introduction. 

I. Biographical Sketch. 

New England Influence. 

Ancestry. 

Salem. 

Early Life. 

Twelve Years of Waiting. 

First Stories. 

Brook Farm. 

The Old Manse. 

The Scarlet Letter. 

Europe, 1863-1860, and Last 

Years. 
Personal Qualities. 

II. Hawthorne's Literary Work. 
Text. 

The Gray Champion. 
Sunday at Home. 
The Wedding Knell. 
The Minister's Black Veil. 
The May-Pole of Merry 

Mount. 
The Gentle Boy. 
Mr. Higginbotham's Catas 

trophe. 
Little Annie's Ramble. 
Wakefield. 

A Rill from the Town Pump. 
The Great Carbuncle. 

Twice Told Tales : 

General questions on Haw- 
thorne's life and works, 
based on substantially the 
same Introduction as that to 
Twice Told Tales, may be 
found under The House of 
the Seven Gables, p 43 ff . of 
this Manual. 



The Prophetic Pictures. 

David Swan. 

Sights from a Steeple. 

The Hollow of the Three 
Hills. 

The Toll-Gatherer's Day. 

The Vision of the Fountain. 

Fancy's Show Box. 

Dr. Heidegger's Experi- 
ment. 

Legends of the Province 
House. 

Edward Randolph's Por- 
trait. 

Lady Eleanore's Mantle. 

Old Esther Dudley. 

The Haunted Mind. 

The Village Uncle. 

The Ambitious Guest. 

The Sister -Years. 

Snowflakes. 

The Seven Vagabonds. 

The White Old Maid. 

Peter Goldthwaite's Treas- 
ure. 

Chippings with a Chisel. 

The Shaker Bridal. 

Night Sketches. 

Endicott and the Red Cross. 

The Lily's Quest. 

Footprints on the Seashore. 

Edward Fane's Rosebud. 

The Threefold Destiny. 

Twice Told Tales — General 
Questions ; Form and 
Style: 

Did the Tivice Told Tales ap- 
pear in book form all at 
once? When? Had any been 
previously printed? Where? 

What was Hawthorne's liter- 
ary reputation before and 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



93 



after their appearance? What 
able writer of tales reviewed 
them favorably (Poe)? 

What autobiographical ele- 
ment is there in the Tivice 
Told Tales (p. 25 ff. )? Point 
out specific illustrations. 

What stories are related in the 
first person? What different 
persons or things does the 
author impersonate? What 
is the effect? 

What stories in this volume 
deal in any way with New 
England history? Which 
historical stories (if any) are 
literally true? Which are 
true in spirit? 

Make a list of the parts of 
Twice Told Tales which are 
mere descriptive sketches, 
and of those which may 
properly be called stories. 

What can you say of Haw- 
thorne's mastery of artistic 
description? How did he 
acquire it (pp. 23-24)? Find 
good examples in stories 
other than the sketches listed 
on page 22. 

The sketches are valuable for 
study of style, diction, ease 
and variety of sentence 
sti-ucture, lightness and deli- 
cacy of fancy, etc. Subjects 
resembling some of Haw- 
thorne's are excellent theme 
subjects for young students ; 
for instance, an account of 
the meeting of an old year 
with a new year, or the 



soliloquy of a garden gate 
(cf. "A Rill from the Town 
Pump"). 

Are there any of the stories 
proper which contain no 
allegory? Any in which the 
allegory is unpleasantly ob- 
trusive? Which of the alle- 
gorical stories do you find 
most effective? Why? 

Do you find any one of the 
stories proper that does not 
have one clearly defined cen- 
tral idea, or produce one im- 
pression, such as Poe's state- 
ment of principles for the 
short story demands (see 
reference, p. 89 of this Man- 
ual)? Formulate as briefly 
as you can the central idea 
of each story. 

Point out all the matter in 
any story that is not used 
somehow in the development 
of the central idea or impres- 
sion. 

In what ways do you find these 
stories realistic? Which 
ones deal in a natural way 
with the life of Hawthorne's 
own time? 

Do you find the tone or subject 
matter of the stories so little 
varied as to become monoto- 
nous? Does the evenness 
and smoothness of the style 
ever grow monotonous to 
you? Does the style ever 
lack animation? 

Which, if any, of these stories 
would you call morbid? 



94 



teacher's manual 



Which contain effective pa- 
thos? Humor? Sarcasm? 

How many of the stories proper 
plunge immediately into 
narrative? In what ways 
do the others begin? Is such 
a beginning as that of 
"David Swan," "Fancy's 
Show Box," or "The Three- 
fold Destiny" effective? 
Answer with reasons. 

Twice Told Tales— In Par- 
ticular : 

"The Gray Champion"— Note 
the historical basis and how 
Hawthorne departed from 
it (pp. 35-36). Is there any 
unnecessary exposition of 
the condition of New Eng- 
land? Prove by specific quo- 
tation the editors' statement 
as to what the Champion 
typifies (p. 35). 

"The Wedding Knell"— What 
explanation of Mr. Ellen- 
wood's action at the wed- 
ding is hinted at in the 
introductory account of him 
(p. 55 ff,)? Is his treatment 
of Mrs. Dabney justified? 

"The Minister's Black Veil"— 
Make a simple and clear 
statement of the meaning of 
this story as briefly as pos- 
sible without omission of any- 
thing essential. Why is it 
called a parable? Note how, 
in the account of the funeral, 
after telling of the shudder- 
ing of the corpse, presum- 



ably at sight of the minis- 
ter's face behind the veil, 
Hawthorne immediately 
mitigates the supernatural- 
ism, or casts doubt on it, by 
adding the words: "A super- 
stitious old woman was the 
only witness of this prod- 
igy" (p. 71). What double 
effect is thus produced? 
Mention similar devices in 
other stories, for instance by 
Irving. 

"The May -Pole of Merry 
Mount" — Is the historical 
matter on pages 88 to 91 
necessary to the story? Has 
it qualities that make it 
desirable in any way? 

"The Gentle Boy"— Does the 
Boy seem natural, talk natu- 
rally (it is necessary to make 
some allowances for the 
time and the sect)? Would 
the story end properly, plau- 
sibly, if the Boy were per- 
mitted to live? 

"Mr. Higginbotham's Catas- 
trophe" — Is there any flaw 
in the working out of the 
plot of this story? Any 
allegorical or other veiled 
meaning? 

"Little Annie's Ramble" — Is 
this a story? Was it writ- 
ten for story interest or for 
some other purpose? Is one 
held by the action, the 
events that take place, or by 
something else? 

"Wakefield" — Why, in your 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



95 



opinion, did this story ap- 
peal particularly to Poe? Is 
the interest in the story or 
in the character? 

"A Rill from the Town Pump" 
— What effects are produced 
by the use of the first person? 

"The Great Carbuncle"— Do 
the characters all seem real, 
or are some of them mere 
qualities personified? What 
is the Great Carbuncle? Com- 
pare with "The Great Stone 
Face." Why were Matthew 
and Hannah the only suc- 
cessful searchers? Point out 
details that seem unnatural, 
or exaggerated for the sake 
of the allegory. 

"The Prophetic Pictures" — 
Point out all the hints of the 
catastrophe which you find 
in the course of the story. 
Comment on the conclusion. 
What does the story mean? 

"David Swan" — Is this a 
story? What would you call 
it? What does Hawthorne 
call it? 

"The Hollow of the Three 
Hills" — What, in outline, is 
the story here? What pre- 
cisely has happened to the 
lady? Do you agree with 
Poe's opinion of this story 
(p. 234)? 

"The Vision of the Fountain" 
— Is the realistic explana- 
tion sufficient and consis- 
tent? 

"Dr. Heidegger's Experiment" 



— What has the quotation 
from the American Note- 
Books (p. 264) to do with the 
story? 

"Howe'sMasquerade" — Where 
does the real story begin? 
Is what precedes introduc- 
tory to this story any more 
than to the other "Legends 
of the Province House"? 

"Lady Eleanore's Mantle" — 
Compare with Poe's "Masque 
of the Red Death. " In what 
different ways is attention 
directed to the mantle? Is 
there any preparation for the 
horrible power which it is 
shown to have? Does the 
natural explanation of this 
power detract in any way 
from the force of the story? 

"Old Esther Dudley"— What 
does this heroine typify? 

"The Ambitious Guest"— 
What warning is there of 
the catastrophe? In how 
many different ways is ironi- 
cal, blind unconsciousness of 
the danger brought out? 
What effect has this on the 
tragedy of the story? What 
details might Hawthorne 
have got from the account 
on pages 364-65? State briefly 
the most important parts of 
the story that are wholly his. 

"The Sister- Years"— Did Haw- 
thorne really "forget to 
mention" as he says on page 
377? 

"The White Old Maid"— Is 



96 



teacher's manual 



there any attempt, or pre- 
tense of an attempt, to ra- 
tionalize this story? 

"Peter Goldthwaite's Treas- 
ure" — What story of Irving's 
does this slightly resemble? 
Point out similarities and 
differences. 

"Chippings with a Chisel" — 
This is not really a story, 
though it consists largely of 
narrative. Why is this? 
Could you say that it con- 
tains the germs of a number 
of stories?, 

"The Shaker Bridal"— What 
admirable characteristic of 



manner do you find (at the 
end, for instance), which is 
particularly suited to the 
nature of this story? 

"Endicott and the Red Cross" 
— Note the relation of details 
here to more important work 
of Hawthorne (pp. 487-88). 

"The Lily's Quest"— What do 
the other characters besides 
Gascoigne (whose meaning 
is stated by Hawthorne) 
symbolize? 

"The Threefold Destiny"-~Is 
the working out of the 
destinies reasonable? Plau- 
sible? 



AS YOU LIKE IT. William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan Neilson, 
M. A., Ph.D., Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Com- 
pany, pp. 207. 26 cents. 



CONTENTS 




Preface. 


II. 


As Tou Like It. 


Contents. 
Introduction. 




Date. 


I. Shakspere and! the English 




Sourcejof the Text. 


Drama. 




Source of the Plot. 


The Drama Before Shak- 




Metre. 


spere. 




Language. 


Shakspere's Early Life. 


Text. 




The Elizabethan Theatre. 






Shakspere's Dramatic De- 


Notes. 




velopment. 


Word Index. 


Shakspere's Last Years. 







As You Like It : 

Questions as to the history of 
the English drama and the 
life of Shakspere may be 
found under The Merchant of 
Venice and Julius Caesar in 
this Manual (pp. 25, 49). 



As You Like It— Date, 
Sources, Form: 

What is the date of this play (p. 
29)? In what period of Shak- 
spere's career does it come? 

When and where was it first 
published? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



97 



What is the direct source of 
the play (p. 30) ? The source 
of this source? 

What important literary ten- 
dencies does Lodge's novel 
illustrate? Describe each 
briefly (p. 31 ff.), and point 
out all the places you find 
in the play where either is 
reflected. 

Point out where the changes 
summarized on pages 33 to 
37 are found, and give addi- 
tion alreasons for them ; that 
is, show wherein the play is 
more dramatic or more nat- 
ural or otherwise more effec- 
tive than the novel. 

What characters are entirely 
original with Shakspere? 
State in a few words what 
each one adds to the effec- 
tiveness of the whole. 

Point out examples of all the 
different uses of verse and 
prose mentioned on page 37. 

Where is rhyme found in this 
play? Enumerate all the 
places and give reasons for 
the use. 

Find examples of the varia- 
tions in metre summarized 
on pages 38 to 40. Of the 
peculiarities of Shakspere's 
language (pp. 41-43). 

The note on I, i, 61 (p. 166), 
speaks of the "contemptuous 
'thou.' " Was thou regu- 
larly a contemptuous form 
of address? Distinguish be- 
tween you and thou as you 



find them throughout this 
play. 

Development of the Plot: 

I, i, is almost wholly exposition 
of the situation. Is any of 
it unnatural? Why does 
Charles tell so much news of 
the court? How much of it 
was really news to Oliver? 

Group the characters in con- 
flicting or contrasting'parties 
as they are revealed in I, i. 
Is any character very im- 
portant to the main story 
missing (that is, including 
those w^ho are mentioned as 
well as those who are actu- 
ally presented)? 

What is the dramatic purpose 
of Rosalind's speech, I, ii, 
26-28? 

Does Rosalind at first show 
any more interest in Orlando 
than Celia shows? Prove 
your conclusion (here and 
always) by specific refer- 
ence. 

Why is there a change to verse 
at I, ii, 244? 

Did Orlando call the ladies 
back (I, ii, 272)? Do you 
think there was anything in 
his action to justify Rosa- 
lind's return? 

I, iii : How have we been pre- 
pared for the banishment of 
Rosalind and Celia's depar- 
ture with her? Point out 
specific passages (as I, i, 118; 
I, ii, 298; etc.). 



98 



teacher's manual 



Is I, iii, 70 ff., consistent with 
previous indications as to 
the time of the Duke's ban- 
ishment? 

With what is I, iii, 116, incon- 
sistent? 

What is accomplished in II, i? 
Is there any action? 

How does II, ii, prepare us for 
the banishment of Oliver (p. 
174)? 

Why should the different 
scenes in the Forest of 
Arden be separated as they 
are? Are they so separated 
when the play is now given? 
Why? 

Note the difference in style 
when Silvius and Corin 
enter, II, iv. What lyrical 
qualities do you find (e. g., 
11. 33-42)? Why? 

II, V, introduces a new charac- 
ter. What have you previ- 
ously learned about him 
(II, i)? 

II, vii: Is enough accom- 
plished before Orlando's 
entrance to justify so much 
talk? What is accomplished? 

What bearing on the plot, or 
relation to it, has Jaques' 
speech on the world as a 
stage (note p. 181)? Amiens' 
song, line 174 ff.? What 
happens while the latter is 
being sung? 

What becomes of Adam after 
Act II? Is his disappearance 
intentional, do you think, or 
an oversight? 



Ill, ii: What reasons do you 
see for having Jaqiles and 
Orlando at outs (pp. 108-109)? 

Does the early part of Rosa- 
lind's talk with Orlando 
(III, ii, 311 ff.) have any im- 
portant bearing on the plot? 

Point out all the covert refer- 
ences made by Rosalind to 
her true person (as III, ii, 
405-406, etc.). 

Do you think it reasonable 
that Orlando should not 
recognize Rosalind? Did it 
probably seem more reason- 
able as acted in Shakspere's 
time than as acted now? 
Why? 

III, iii: Have we had any 
hint of Touchstone's love af- 
fair before this scene? Do we 
learn anything definite about 
what has preceded it? 

What have we learned about 
Silvius and Phebe before 
III, V? Where? 

Compare Phebe's falling in 
love with Ganymede, with 
Olivia's falling in love with 
Cesario in Twelfth Night. 

IV, iii: Why does Shakspere 
have Oliver tell about his 
rescue by Orlando instead of 
representing that scene? 

What preparation have we for 
Oliver's change of heart (see 
note p. 195)? 

Point out places in IV, iii, 
where you think there may 
be indications of the love of 
Oliver and Celia. Where 



FOR THE LAKE EKGLI8H CLASSICS 



99 



are there later hints as to 
this (p. 149)? What other 
couples in the play have 
fallen in love at first sight? 

Does Oliver guess Ganymede's 
sex when she swoons? 

Do you agree with the criti- 
cism of the note on V, ii, 1 
(p. 196)? 

Of what previous part of .the 
play do the repetitions and 
balance on page 151 remind 
you? Where do similar repe- 
titions come later? 

Why should not Rosalind have 
revealed herself to her father 
sooner than she does? Do 
you find any other reason ex- 
cept that suspense suits the 
dramatist's purpose better? 
Is this also the reason for 
the delay in the marriage of 
Touchstone and Audrey (III, 
iii)? 

Is the conversion of Duke 
Frederick prepared for in 
any way? Does it seem 
reasonable? More or less 
reasonable than the refor- 
mation of Oliver? 

Account for "If I were a wo- 
man," line 20 of the Epi- 
logue. 

The Plot in General: 

Which do you consider the 
best of the explanations of 
the title given on page 164? 
Why? 

What is the main action of the 
play? Where does it begin ; 



where does it reach the 
height of complication ; and 
with what event does it 
end? 

How many subordinate love 
actions are there? Show to 
what extent there is a begin- 
ning, a complication, and an 
end in the case of each. 
Which ones cross others 
(Phebe and Rosalind, Wil- 
liam and Audrey)? 

What may be regarded as the 
main theme of the play? 
Ill, v, 82, has been sug- 
gested. Comment on the 
suggestion. 

What can be taken as the 
moral of the play? Will II, 
i, 13, fit? 

What elements of contem- 
porary satire do you find 
(e. g., V, iv, 71ff.)? 

What references are there to 
popular poetry? 

Where is the Forest of Arden? 
In a temperate climate? Is 
there any real description of 
the Forest? How do you 
learn so much about it? 
How is so much out-of- 
doors atmosphere produced? 

Characterization : 

Group the characters in such a 
way as to show how they are 
balanced in pairs — contend- 
ing, or contrasting, or col- 
laborating. Is there any 
entirely detached character? 
Point out all the resem- 



100 



teacher's manual 



blances you note between 

Oliver and Duke Frederick ; 

Orlando and the banished 

Duke. 
Is Jaques really melancholy? 

Is .he any better philosopher 

than Touchstone? 
Compare Rosalind with other 

women in Shakspere's plays 

who impersonate men. 



What person (or persons) do 
you find whose name is indi- 
cative in a humorous or 
satirical way of his charac 
ter or occupation? 

Other questions bearing on 
characterization have been 
given above in connection 
with the development of the 
plot. 



HAMLET. William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan Nellson, M.A., 
Ph.D., Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and Company, 
pp. 286. 25 cents. 

CONTENTS 



PREFACE. 

Contents. 
Introduction. 

I. Shakspere and the English 
Drama. 
The Drama Before Shak- 
spere. 
Shakspere's Early Life. 
The Elizabethan Theatre. 
Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
velopment. 
Shakspere's Last Years. 

Hamlet: 

The questions on the life of 
Shakspere and on the Eliza- 
bethan Drama, given on pp. 
25 and 49 of this Manual, 
may be used equally well in 
the study of Hamlet. 

General Questions : 

From what sources are ob- 
tained the texts of our pres- 
ent-day edition of this play 
(p. 38)? 

Why is the exact date of 
composition difficult to de- 
termine? What is the ap- 
proximate date (p. 37)? 
What other plays were com- 



ix. Hamlet. 

Date. 

Source of the Text, 

Source of the Plot. 

Metre. 

Language. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Word Index. 

posed at about the same 
time? What period of Shak- 
spere's life is this? What 
evidence is there within the 
play that leads us to know 
that Julius Caesar was com- 
posed after Hamlet (pp. 56 
and 135)? 
From what source has Shak- 
spere obtained the general 
outline of his story? What 
is the probable influence of 
an older play upon the same 
subject (p. 39)? Are there 
any traces of it to be found 
in the present text? How 
has Shakspere used this older 
play (pp. 4041)? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



101 



Questions on difficult passages 
and peculiar use of words 
may be gathered from the 
full Notes (pp. 235-373). 

Plot in Detail : 

How does the atmosphere of 
the first scene give us at once 
the tone of the whole play 
(pp. 51-53)? How is past 
history introduced? What 
further use is made of the 
narration on p. 60? Are we 
expecting the attitude that 
Hamlet assumes (p. 62)? 
Compare the first soliloquy 
(p. 64) with the other two 
and explain its peculiar tone. 
What is the significance of 
its last line (p. 66)? How do 
you explain Hamlet's be- 
haviour on Horatio's telling 
him of seeing his father? 
What are the inciting forces 
put into motion in Act I? 

What is the effect on the 
further shaping of the drama 
of the speeches of Laertes 
and Polonius to Ophelia in 
I, iii (pp. 71 ff.)? Note how the 
instructions have been fully 
carried out by her (p. 96, 11. 
108-109). Does the command 
of the ghost (p. 85, 11. 85-86) 
have any later effect? If we 
conclude that Hamlet de- 
cides to feign madness at 
the end of I, v, what reasons 
has he for doing so? Tell all 
that has been accomplished 
in Act I. 



Does your own interpretation 
of Hamlet's conduct in his 
interview with Ophelia agree 
with that of Polonius (p. 95)? 
Why is it given by narration 
rather than by action? Com- 
pare this with the interview 
in III, 1. Why does Hamlet 
treat Ophelia so harshly, if 
he loves her? Did he know 
her weakness? Interpret the 
interview between Polonius 
and Hamlet (pp. 104-05). 
Summarize all the scenes 
between Hamlet, Rosen 
crantz, and Guildenstern. 

Why is Polonius led to his 
diagnosis of Hamlet's case 
(p. 101)? Does this agree with 
your own interpretation? 
Note the doubt still in Ham- 
let's mind (p. 120). When is 
it dissipated (p. 141)? 

What is the purpose of the play 
within the play (p. 130)? 
How does Hamlet act the 
Chorus (p. 139)? 

Note the forebodings on the 
part of the king (p. 129). 
What is the cause of Ham- 
let's resolution on p. 145, 11. 
397 ff.? 

Where is the climax of the 
play (p. 149)? .Give your 
reasons. Why" does Hamlet 
refuse to kill the king in III, 
ii (p. 149)? What are the 
consequences of his refusal? 
What [is the dramatic use of 
it? 

Describe the interview be- 



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teacher's manual 



tween Hamlet and his 
mother (pp. .152 ff.). Is the 
ghost in this scene a real 
one, as in Act I, or only a 
creation of Hamlet's imag- 
ination? 

What are the important steps 
in the downward action? 
Note how they are heaped 
up in Act IV. See the 
king's remark concerning 
this (p. 174, 11. 67 ff.). 

What is the purpose of the 
comic element introduced by 
the grave-diggers' scene, V, 
1? Compare the porter's 
scene in Macbeth (Lake Eng- 
lish Classics, edited Boyn- 
ton-Neilson, p. 78). Compare 
it with the later action in 
the same scene. Note Ham- 
let's slight rally in V, ii (p. 
208). Does the denouement 
come slowly or rapidly from 
this point on? Show how 
the catastrophe fulfills the 
demands of tragedy. 

Plot in General: 

Make a concise presentation 
of all the evidence you can 
gather from the play that 
Hamlet is mad and a similar 
one of all the evidence that 
he is not mad. Do you think 
that Shakspere used Hamlet 
for a mouthpiece in the Osric 
scenes and in the discussion 
of the state of the theatre? 

Note the sporadic appear- 
ances of the Fortinbras 



scenes and how they are 
taken up after the catas- 
trophe. 

Does the tragedy seem to be 
one of fate rather than of 
character? Is it a good ex- 
ample of the "Blood Trage- 
dy?" (For this point com- 
pare the description of the 
older play given on p. 40.) 

What is the main theme of 
the tragedy? In what scene 
does its expression reach the 
highest pitch? 

Characters: 

Do you find an attractive char- 
acter in the play? 

Is the king, with all his wick- 
edness, a brave man (p. 176)? 

Many explanations of Ham- 
let's weakness of character 
have been offered — moral 
sensitiveness and weakness 
of will; melancholy temper- 
ament ; excessive reflection ; 
love for Ophelia. Which 
theory seems to you strong- 
est? Give reasons, with il- 
lustrations. Can these 
theories be made complemen- 
tary? 

What is the function of Hora- 
tio in this play? 

What of Polonius and his 
philosophy? What is its 
source? 

Do you consider Ophelia a 
weak character, brought to 
her fate by conventions of 
society? What would Portia 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



103 



have done under similar cir- 
cumstances? Do you feel 
attracted towards Ophelia, 
or are you repulsed by her 
extreme obedience to her 
father? What were the 
causes of her madness? 
Show how Fortinbras stands in 
dramatic contrast to Hamlet. 



Note Hamlet's own realiza- 
tion of this fact (p. 170). 
Is Laertes a willfully bad man? 
What were his promptings? 
Does he readily grasp the evil 
suggestions of the king in 
IV, vii (pp. 183 ff.)? What 
were Hamlet's own feelings 
towards him (p. 215)? 



TWELFTH NIGHTc William Shakspere. Edited by William Allan 
Neilson, M.A., Ph.D., Harvard University. Chicago: Scott, Foresman 
and Company, pp. 192. 25 cents. 

CONTENTS 



Pbefacb. 

Contents. 
Introduction. 

I. Shakspere and the English 
Drama. 
The Drama Before Shak- 
spere. 
Shakspere's Early Life. 
The Elizabethan Theatre. 
Shakspere's Dramatic De- 
velopment. 
Shakspere's Last Years. 

Twelfth Night : 

Questions as to the history of 
the English drama and the 
life of Shakspere may be 
found under The Merchant 
of Venice and Julius Caesar 
in this Manual (pp. 25, 49). 

Twelfth Night— Date, 
Sources, Form: 

When was this play probably 
written (pp. 29-31)? To what 
period of Shakspere's life 
does it belong? 



II. Twelfth Night. 

Date. 

Source of the Text. 

Source of the Plot. 

Metre. 

Language. 
Text. 
Notes. 
Word index. 



When and where was it first 
printed? 

Where did Shakspere appar- 
ently get his main plot (p. 
32)? Point out specific re- 
semblances between the plot 
of Twelfth Night and that of 
Apolonius and Silla as out- 
lined on pages 32 and 33. 

What characters are wholly 
Shakspere's (p. 33)? What 
do they give to the play 
which is not in Riche's story? 

What do you think of your 



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editor's suggestion (p. 34) as 
to a source for the "charge 
of madness in Malvolio," 
etc.? Point out in detail 
whatever resemblances you 
find in the situations. 
Find good examples for your- 
self of all the peculiarities 
of language and metre sum- 
marized on pages 35 to 41. 

Development of the Plot : 

Does I, i, give an erroneous 
idea as to who are to be the 
leading personages of^ the 
play? Is the failure to intro- 
duce or mention Viola a de- 
fect? 

I, ii : What is the "motive for 
Viola's disguise" (note bot- 
tom p. 157)? 

Why does Viola mention that 
her father knew Orsino and 

■ that he is (or was) a bache- 
lor? Is she already in love 
with him? 

What is the dramatic purpose 
of her mention of Sebastian? 

I, iv: Is the favor Viola has 
obtained with the Duke ac- 
counted for? Her attitude 
towards him which is so sud- 
denly shown at the end of 
this scene? Is her attitude 
shown to one who sees the 
play acted before it is ex- 
pressed in words? How and 
when? 

Is anything accomplished by 
the elaborate fooling in the 
first part of I, v? Is there 



too long a time before Viola 
enters and the main story is 
taken up again? 

What love affair is foreshad- 
owed in I, V, besides the 
main ones already started 
(see 1.30)? 

When does Olivia begin to be 
especially interested in Ce- 
sario? Where and how do 
we learn most about this 
(II, ii)? What situation in 
As You Like It does it re- 
semble? 

II, i: Why does Sebastian 
mention his resemblance to 
Viola? Did she mention it? 
Do you see any reason why? 

II, ii : Why does Viola accept 
the ring from Olivia? Had 
she realized before this the 
turn affairs were taking? 

II, iii : What is the dramatic 
purpose of having Malvolio 
interrupt the revellers ; that 
is, what later action is ac- 
counted for? 

II, iv : Point out all the veiled 
references Viola makes to 
her own love. Can they be 
as effective when the play is 
read as when it is acted? 
Why? 

What dramatic purpose does 
the Clown's comment on the 
Duke's changeableness serve 
(H, iv, 75)? 

II, V : How and to whom are 
the remarks of Sir Toby, Sir 
Andrew, and Fabian made 
after Malvolio enters (1. 26)? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



105 



'l Describe a proper setting for 
the scene. 

Ill, 1 : Does the talk of Viola 
and the Clown at the begin- 
ning of this scene further 
the plot? What does it do? 

What defence is there (as in 
difference of rank) for Oliv- 
ia's declaration of her love? 

What Tie>w complication of the 
plot begins in III, ii? Note 
how this brings the main 
serious plot and the comic 
underplots together. 

Ill, iii : What dramatic reason 
do you find for Antonio's 
fear to be seen in lUyria? 

III, iv : Point out the specific 
effect of every part of the 
letter Malvolio found. 

What incentive besides mere 
love of a joke have the plot- 
ters against Malvolio? 

Do you find it objectionable 
that the heroine should be 
the butt of a practical joke? 
What does the mock duel 
accomplish for the plot? Of 
what scene in a more recent 
English play are you re- 
minded by this scene (cf . Tlie 
Rivals)^ 

To whom is Viola talking just 
after Antonio's exit, III, iv, 
414 ff.? 

What is the "element" re- 
ferred to in the first note on 
Act IV (p. 179)? 

IV, ii; What portions of the 
Clown's speeches on p. 134 
are in his own person? What 



other person does he repre- 
sent? 

Is the action of IV, iii, suffi- 
ciently accounted for? How? 

See the question in the note on 
V, i, 129. 

Whose appearance unties the 
dramatic knot? Show in de- 
tail how. 

Do you find the Duke's trans- 
fer of his affection to Viola 
prepared for (e. g. in his 
character)? Is it reasonable? 
Does he deserve her? 

What becomes of the various 
characters besides the two 
principal pairs of lovers — 
especially Malvolio, Sir Toby, 
and Sir Andrew? 

What significance has the 
song at the end of the play? 

The Plot in General: 

Whence comes the title of the 
play? What do you think 
of it? 

What contemporary beliefs 
and customs do you find 
satirized (as in IV, ii)? 

Where is lUyria, the scene of 
the play? 

For what purposes is soliloquy 
used in this play (as at end 
of II, ii, etc.)? 

What examples of "double 
time" are there in Twelfth 
Night (as I, iv, 3; V, i, 103; 
etc.)? 

Compare this play with TJie 
Comedy of Errors as to the 
use of confusion of identity. 



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teachek's manual 



What scenes here are farci- 
cal? What scenes are much 
more effective acted than 
read? Why? 

Characterization : 

The scene of the play is lUyria. 
Of what nationality are the 
comic characters? 

What male part requires the 
best actor in a stage presen- 
tation of Tivelfth Night? 
Why? 

What idea of the Duke's char- 
acter do we get at the very 
beginning of the play? Is 
the portrait of him con- 
sistent throughout? He has 
been compared with Romeo 
before the meeting with 
Juliet. What is the point 
of the comparison? 

How are we prepared for the 
characteristics of Sir An- 



drew before we meet him? 
How does his name fit him? 
What other characters are 
there in this play whose 
names fit similarly? 

To what extent is Malvolio's 
character indicated by his 
first speeches (I, v, 84, 93) 
and Olivia's comment? In 
what respects is he properly 
called by Maria a Puritan 
(II, iii, 160)? 

Point out the different ways 
in which Viola's character is 
revealed. 

Verify the statement as to 
Viola's speeches in note on 
III, i, 97 (p. 173). 

Compare the Clown in this 
play with Touchstone in As 
You Like It, and other 
Shaksperean fools. Does he 
have any function besides 
creating humor? 



FOR THE LAKE ENGLISH CLASSICS 



107 



THANATOPS/S. William Cullen Bryant. Introduction abridged from 
Newcomer's American Literature. Chicago: Scott, Foresman and 
Company. Cloth, 364 pages. $1. 



Bryant's Life : 

When and where was the poet 
born? 

What was his father's occupa- 
tion? 

In what did his early educa- 
tion consist? 

Describe some of his occupa- 
tions as a youth. 

At what age did he begin to 
write verses? 

What was the title of his first 
published poem? 

What college did he attend? 

Did he graduate? 

Describe the circumstances at- 
tendant on the writing of 
"Thanatopsis. " 

What was Bryant's age when 
he wrote this poem? 

In what magazine was this 
poem published? 

Did it appear in its present 
form? What lines were lack- 
ing? 

When did Bryant publish his 
first volume of poems? 

What profession did he adopt 
at first? 

What subsequently? 

What was his influence on 
American politics and public 
life? 

What important translations 
of the classics did he make 
late in life? 

How much time elapsed be- 
tween the writing of "Thana- 



topsis" and "The Flood of 
Years"? 

Compare Bryant's capabilities 
and powers at the ages of 
nineteen and eighty-three. 

What may be said of the influ- 
ence of his poems, and of 
their improving by long ac- 
quaintance? 

When did he die? At what 
age? 

Where was he buried? 

Thanatopsis: 

This poem was written before 
the poet was nineteen years 
of age, and to some people 
this is its chief merit. Poems 
of beauty and brightness, of 
hope and cheer, are perhaps 
better for young people, but 
this is a wonderful produc- 
tion when we contemplate 
the poet's youthfulness. It 
is plain to see in these lines 
that the boy was the father 
of the man. Worship, faith, 
stability of character, love 
of [nature, which crowned 
the poet's life, are all por- 
trayed in this poem of his 
early years. 

What rank has been accorded 
the poem? 

How does it compare with 
Bryant's other work? 

V/hat is the meaning of the 
word "Thanatopsis"? 



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teacher's manual 



What is the central theme of 
the poem? 

Is the poem consoling |or de- 
pressing? 

Contrast "Thanatopsis" with 
the opening pages of Keats's 
"Endymion," written about 
the same time. Which seems 
the more youthful? Which 
has the more color and 
melody? Which, if either, 
is the more devout? 



What examples do you find in 
"Thanatopsis" of conven- 
tional poetic diction? 

Does Bryant's poem show 
clearly the inspiration of a 
new land? 

Is it equally clear that the 
new land is America and no 
other? 

Could ' 'Thanatopsis' ' have been 
written in Australia? In 
England? 



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